1 


Sandburrs 


"SPOT    AM)    1'FNCHER." — Page   4. 


Sandburrs 

By 
Alfred  Henry  Lewis 

Author  oflTolfville,"  etc. 

Illustrated  by 

Horace  Taylor 

and 

George  B.  Luks 


Second  Edition 


New  York 
Frederick  A.  Stokes  Company 

Publishers 


Copyright^  1898, 
By  The  Verdict  Publishing  Company. 


Copyright^ 
By  Frederick  A.  Stokes  Company. 


TO 

JAMES    ROBERT    KEENE 


PREFACE 

A  SANDBURR  is  a  foolish,  small  vegetable,  irritating 
and  grievously  useless.  Therefore  this  volume  of 
sketches  is  named  SANDBURRS.  Some  folk  there  be 
who  apologize  for  the  birth  of  a  book.  There's  scant 
propriety  of  it.  A  book  is  but  a  legless,  dormant 
creature.  The  public  has  but  to  let  it  alone  to  be  safe. 
And  a  book,  withal !  is  its  own  punishment.  Is  it  a 
bad  book  ?  the  author  loses.  Is  it  very  bad  ?  the 
publisher  loses.  In  any  case  the  public  is  preserved. 
For  all  of  which  there  will  be  no  apology  for  SAND- 
BURRS.  Nor  will  I  tell  what  I  think  of  it.  No  ;  this 
volume  may  make  its  own  running,  without  the  handi 
cap  of  my  apology,  or  the  hamstringing  of  my  criti 
cism.  There  should  be  more  than  one  to  do  the 
latter  with  the  least  of  luck.  The  Bowery  dialect — if 
it  be  a  dialect — employed  in  sundry  of  these  sketches 
is  not  an  exalted  literature.  The  stories  told  are  true, 
however ;  so  much  may  they  have  defence. 

A.  H.  L. 

NEW  YORK,  Nov.  15,  1899. 


CONTENTS 


PAGB 

I.    SPOT   AND   PINCHER I 

II.     MULBERRY  MARY 8 

III.    SINGLETREE    JENNINGS 1$ 

iv.  JESS : 17 

V.    THE  HUMMING    BIRD 24 

VI.    GASSY  THOMPSON,    VILLAIN 2Q 

VII.    ONE  MOUNTAIN  LION 34 

VIII.    MOLLIE    MATCHES 44 

IX.    THE    ST.    CYRS 49 

X.    McBRIDE's    DANDY 53 

XL     RED    MIKE 57 

XII.     HAMILTON  FINNERTY's  HEART 62 

XIII.  SHORT  CREEK  DAVE 68 

XIV.  CRIME  THAT  FAILED 77 

XV.    THE    BETRAYAL 83 

XVI.    FOILED 86 

XVII.    POLITICS 92 

XVIII.     ESSLEIN  GAMES 98 

XIX.    THE    PAINFUL  ERROR IC>5 

XX,    THE-  RAT IO8 

XXI.    CHEYENNE   BILL. H3 

XXII.    BLIGHTED 121 

XXIII.    THE  SURETHING 125 

5 


6  CONTENTS 

PACK 

XXIV.   GLADSTONE    BURR 129 

XXV.    THE    GARROTE 132 

xxvi.   O'TOOLE'S  CHIVALRY 137 

XXVII.     WAGON  MOUND  SAL 142 

xxvin.   JOE  DUBUQUE'S  LUCK 152 

XXIX.     BINKS    AND  MRS.    B 157 

XXX.     ARABELLA  WELD 165 

XXXI.    THE    WEDDING 1 7 1 

xxxii.   POINSETTE'S  CAPTIVITY 177 

XXXIII.    TIP  FROM  THE  TOMB , 182 

XXXIV.     BRIDGY    MrGUIRE l86 

XXXV.     TOO   CHEAP 194 

XXXVI.     HENRY  SPENY'S  BENEVOLENCE 198 

XXXVII.     JANE  DOUGHERTY 2O2 

XXXVIII.     MISTRESS  KILLIFER 209 

XXXIX.     BEARS 222 

XL.    THE  BIG  TOUCH 229 

XLI.    THE  FATAL  KEY 235 

XLII.    AN  OCEAN  ERROR 238 

XLIII.    SKINNY  MIKE'S  UNWISDOM 242 

XLIV.    MOLLIE     PRESCOTT 246 

XLV.    ANNA    MARIE 254 

XLVI.    THE  PETERSENS 261 

XLVII.  BOWLDER'S  BURGLAR 267 

XLVIII.     ANGELINA  McLAURIN 276 

XLIX.    DINKY   PETE 284 

L.    CRIB  OR  COFFIN  ? 290 

LI.    OHIO  DAYS 297 


SANDBURRS 


SPOT  AND  PINCHER. 

MARTIN  is  the  barkeeper  of  an  East  Side  hotel — not 
a  good  hotel  at  all — and  flourishes  as  a  sporting  person 
of  much  emphasis.  Martin,  in  passing,  is  at  the 
head  of  the  dog-fighting  brotherhood.  I  often  talk 
with  Martin  and  love  him  very  much. 

Last  week  I  visited  Martin's  bar.  There  was 
"  nothin'  doin',"  to  quote  from  Martin.  We  talked  of 
fighting  men,  a  subject  near  to  Martin,  he  having 
fought  three  prize-fights  himself.  Martin  boasted  him 
self  as  still  being  "  an  even  break  wit*  any  rough-and- 
tumble  scrapper  in  d'  bunch." 

"  Come  here,"  said  Martin,  in  course  of  converse  ; 
"  come  here  ;  I'll  show  you  a  bute." 

Martin  opened  a  door  to  the  room  back  of  the  bar. 
As  we  entered  a  pink-white  bull  terrier,  with  black 
spots  about  the  eyes,  raced  across  to  fawn  on  Martin. 
The  terrier's  black  toe-nails,  bright  and  hard  as  agate, 
made  a  vast  clatter  on  the  ash  floor. 

"  This  is  Spot,"  said  Martin.  "  Weighs  thirty-three 
pounds,  and  he's  a  hully  terror  !  I'm  goin'  to  fight  him 
to-night  for  five  hundred  dollars." 


2  SANDBURRS 

I  stooped  to  express  with  a  pat  on  his  smooth  white 
head  my  approbation  of  Spot. 

";Pick  him  up  and  heft  him,"  said  Martin.  "  He 
won't  nip  you,"  he  continued,  as  I  hesitated  ;  "  bulls 
is  d'  most  manful  dogs  there  bees.  Bulls  won't  bite 
nobody." 

Thereupon  I  picked  up  Spot  "  to  heft  him."  Spot 
smiled  widely,  wagged  his  stumpy  tail,  tried  to  lick 
my  face,  and  felt  like  a  bundle  of  live  steel. 

"  Spot's  goin'  to  fight  McDermott's  Pincher,"  said 
Martin.  "  And,"  addressing  this  to  Spot,  "  you  want 
to  watch  out,  old  boy  !  Pincher  is  as  hard  as  a  hod  of 
brick.  And  you  want  to  look  out  for  your  Trilbys  ; 
Pincher'll  fight  for  your  feet  and  legs.  He's  d'  limit, 
Spot,  Pincher  is !  and  you  must  tend  to  business 
when  you're  in  d'  pit  wit'  Pincher,  or  he'll  do  you. 
Then  McDermott  would  win  me  money,  an1  you  an* 
me,  Spot,  would  look  like  a  couple  of  suckers." 

Spot  listened  with  a  pleased  air,  as  if  drinking  in 
every  word,  and  wagged  his  stump  reassuringly.  He 
would  remember  Pincher's  genius  for  crunching  feet 
and  legs,  and  see  to  it  fully  in  a  general  way  that 
Pincher  did  not  "  do  "  him. 

"  Spot  knows  he's  goin'  to  fight  to-night  as  well  as 
you  and  me,"  said  Martin,  as  we  returned  to  the  bar. 
"  Be  d'  way  !  don't  you  want  to  go?  " 

****** 

It  was  nine  o'clock  that  evening.  The  pit,  sixteen 
feet  square,  with  board  walls  three  feet  high,  was  built 
in  the  centre  of  an  empty  loft  on  Bleecker  street. 
Directly  over  the  pit  was  a  bunch  of  electric  lights. 
All  about,  raised  six  inches  one  above  the  other,  were 
a  dozen  rows  of  board  seats  like  a  circus.  These  were 


SPOT  AND  PINCHER  3 

crowded  with  perhaps  two  hundred  sports.  They  sat 
close,  and  in  the  vague,  smoky  atmosphere,  their 
faces,  row  on  row,  tier  above  tier,  put  me  in  mind  of 
potatoes  in  a  bin. 

Pincher  was  a  bull  terrier,  the  counterpart  of  Spot, 
save  for  the  markings  about  the  face  which  gave  Spot 
his  name.  Pincher  seemed  very  sanguine  and  full  of 
eager  hope ;  and  as  he  and  Spot,  held  in  the  arms  of 
their  handlers,  lolled  at  each  other  across  the  pit,  it 
was  plain  they  languished  to  begin.  Neither,  however, 
made  yelp  or  cry  or  bark.  Bull  terriers  of  true  worth 
on  the  battle-field  were,  I  learned,  a  tacit,  wordless 
brood,  making  no  sound. 

Martin  "handled  "  Spot  and  McDermott  did  kindly 
office  for  Pincher  in  the  same  behalf.  Martin  and  Mc 
Dermott  "  tasted  "  Spot  and  Pincher  respectively ; 
smelled  and  mouthed  them  for  snuffs  and  poisons. 
Spot  and  Pincher  submitted  to  these  examinations 
in  a  gentlemanly  way,  but  were  glad  when  they  ended. 

At  the  word  of  the  referee,  Spot  and  Pincher  were 
loosed,  each  in  his  corner.  They  went  straight  at 
each  6ther's  throats.  They  met  in  the  exact  centre  of 
the  pit  like  two  milk-white  thunderbolts,  and  the 
battle  began. 

Spot  and  Pincher  moiled  and  toiled  bloodily  for 
forty-five  minutes  without  halt  or  pause  or  space  to 
breathe.  Their  handlers,  who  were  confined  to  their 
corners  by  quarter  circles  drawn  in  chalk  so  as  to  hem 
them  in,  leaned  forward  toward  the  fray  and  breathed 
encouragement. 

What  struck  me  as  wonderful,  withal,  was  a  lack  of 
angry  ferocity  on  the  parts  of  Spot  and  Pincher. 
There  was  naught  of  growl,  naught  of  rage-born  cry  or 


4  SANDBURRS 

comment.  They  simply  blazed  with  a  zeal  for  blood  ; 
burned  with  a  blind  death-ardour. 

When  Spot  and  Pincher  began,  all  was  so  flash-like 
in  their  motions,  I  could  hardly  tell  what  went  on. 
They  were  in  and  out,  down  and  up,  over  and  under, 
writhing  like  two  serpents.  Now  and  then  a  pair  of 
jaws  clicked  like  castanets  as  they  came  together  with 
a  trap-like  snap,  missing  their  hold.  Now  and  then 
one  or  the  other  would  get  a  half-grip  that  would  tear 
out.  Then  the  blood  flowed,  painting  both  Spot  and 
Pincher  crimson. 

As  time  went  on  my  eyes  began  to  follow  better, 
and  I  noted  some  amazing  matters.  It  was  plain,  for 
one  thing,  that  both  Spot  and  Pincher  were  as  wise 
and  expert  as  two  boxers.  They  fought  intelligently, 
and  each  had  a  system.  As  Martin  had  said,  Pincher 
fought  "  under,"  in  never-ending  efforts  to  seize  Spot's 
feet  and  legs.  Spot  was  perfectly  aware  of  this,  and 
never  failed  to  keep  his  fore  legs  well  back  and  beneath 
him,  out  of  Pincher's  reach. 

Spot,  on  his  part,  set  his  whole  effort  to  the  enter 
prise  of  getting  Pincher  by  the  throat.  A  dog  without 
breath  means  a  dead  dog,  and  Spot  knew  this.  Pincher 
appeared  clear  on  the  point,  too ;  and  would  hold  his 
chin  close  to  his  breast,  and  shrug  his  head  and  shoul 
ders  well  together  whenever  Spot  tried  to  work  for  a 
throat  hold. 

Now  and  then  Spot  and  Pincher  stood  up  to  each 
other  like  wrestlers,  and  fenced  with  their  muzzles  for 
"  holds  "  as  might  two  Frenchmen  with  foils.  In  the 
wrestling  Spot  proved  himself  a  perfect  Whistler,  and 
never  failed  to  throw  Pincher  heavily.  And,  as  I 
stated,  from  the  beginning,  the  two  warriors  battled  on 


SPOT  AND  PINCHER  5 

without  cry.  Silent,  sedulous,  indomitable ;  both  were 
the  sublimation  of  courage  and  fell  purpose.  They 
were  fighting  to  the  death ;  they  knew  it,  joyed  in  it, 
and  gave  themselves  to  their  destiny  without  reserve. 
Each  was  eager  only  to  kill,  willing  only  to  die.  It 
was  a  lesson  to  men.  And,  as  I  looked,  I  realised  that 
both  were  two  of  the  happiest  of  created  things.  In 
the  very  heat  of  the  encounter,  with  throbbing  hearts 
and  heaving  sides,  and  rending  fangs  and  flowing  blood, 
they  found  a  great  content. 

All  at  once  Spot  and  Pincher  stood  motionless. 
Their  eyes  were  like  coals,  and  their  respective  stump 
tails  stood  stiffly,  as  indicating  no  abatement  of  heart 
or  courage.  What  was  it  that  brought  the  halt  ?  Spot 
had  set  his  long  fangs  through  the  side  of  Pincher's 
head  in  such  fashion  that  Pincher  couldn't  reach  him 
nor  retaliate  with  his  teeth.  Pincher,  discovering  this, 
ceased  to  try,  and  stood  there  unconquered,  resting 
and  awaiting  developments.  Spot,  after  the  manner 
of  his  breed,  kept  his  grip  like  Death.  They  stood 
silent,  motionless,  while  the  blood  dripped  from  their 
gashes ;  a  grim  picture  !  They  had  fought,  as  I  learned 
later,  to  what  is  known  in  the  great  sport  of  dog  fight 
ing  as  "a  turn." 

"  It's  a  turn  !  "  decided  the  referee. 

At  this  Martin  and  McDermot  seized  each  his  dog 
and  parted  them  scientifically.  Spot  and  Pincher  were 
carried  to  their  corners  and  refreshed  and  sponged  with 
cold  water.  At  the  end  of  one  minute  the  referee 
called : 

"Time!" 

At  this  point  I  further  added  to  my  learning  touch 
ing  the  kingly  pastime  of  dog-fighting.  When  two 


6  SANDBURRS 

dogs  have  "  fought  to  a  turn,"  that  is,  locked  them 
selves  in  a  grip,  not  deadly  to  either  if  persisted  in, 
and  which  still  prevents  further  righting, — as  in  the 
case  of  Spot  and  Pincher, — a  responsibility  rests  with 
the  call  of  u  Time  "  on  the  dog  that  "turns."  In  this 
instance,  Pincher.  At  the  call  of  4<  Time  "  Spot  would 
be  held  by  his  handler,  standing  in  plain  view  of 
Pincher,  but  in  his  corner.  It  was  incumbent  on 
Pincher — as  a  proof  of  good  faith — to  cross  the  pit  to 
get  at  him.  If  Pincher  failed  when  released  on  call  of 
"  Time  "  to  come  straight  across  to  Spot,  and  come  at 
once ;  if  he  looked  to  right  or  left  or  hesitated  even 
for  the  splinter  of  a  second,  he  was  a  beaten  dog.  The 
battle  was  against  him. 

"  Time  !  "  called  the  referee. 

Just  prior  to  the  call  I  heard  Martin  whisper  huskily 
over  his  shoulder  to  a  rough  customer  who  sat  just 
back  of  and  above  him,  at  Spot's  corner  of  the  pit : 

"  Stand  by  wit'  that  glim  now ! "  Martin  muttered 
without  turning  his  head. 

At  the  call  "  Time !  "  McDermot  released  Pincher 
across  in  his  corner.  Pincher's  eyes  were  riveted  on 
Spot,  just  over  the  way,  and  there's  no  doubt  of 
Pincher's  full  purpose  to  close  with  him  at  once. 
There  was  no  more  of  hesitation  in  his  stout  heart 
than  in  Spot's,  who  stood  mouth  open  and  fire-eyed, 
waiting. 

But  a  strange  interference  occurred.  At  the  word 
"  Time !  "  the  rough  customer  chronicled  slipped  the 
slide  of  a  dark  lantern  and  threw  the  small  glare  of  it 
squarely  in  Pincher's  eyes.  It  dazed  Pincher;  he  lost 
sight  of  Spot ;  forgot  for  a  moment  his  great  purpose. 
There  stood  poor  Pincher,  irresolute,  not  knowing 


SPOT  AND  PINCHER  7 

where  to  find  his  enemy;  thrall  to  the  glare  of  the 
dark  lantern. 

"  Spot  win  !  "  declared  the  referee. 

At  that  moment  the  dark-lantern  rough-customer 
closed  the  slide  and  disappeared. 

Few  saw  the  trick  or  its  effects.  Certainly  the  referee 
was  guiltless.  But  McDermot,  who  had  had  the  same 
view  of  the  dark  lantern  Pincher  had,  and  on  whom 
for  a  moment  it  had  similar  effect,  raised  a  great 
clamour.  But  it  was  too  late  ;  Martin  had  claimed  the 
thousand  dollars  from  the  stake-holder,  and  with  it  in 
his  pocket  was  already  in  a  carriage  driving  away,  with 
Spot  wrapped  up  in  a  lap  robe  occupying  the  front 
seat. 

"  Let  McDermot  holler !  "  said  Martin,  with  much 
heat,  when  I  mentioned  the  subject  the  next  day. 
"  Am  I  goin'  to  lose  a  fight  and  five  hundred  dollars, 
just  because  some  bloke  brings  a  dark  lantern  to  d'  pit 
and  takes  to  monkeyin'  wit'  it?  Not  on  your  life!" 


MULBERRY  MARY 
(ANNALS    OF   THE    BEND, 

"CHUCKY  D'  TURK"  was  the  nom  de guerre  of  my 
friend.  Under  this  title  he  fought  the  battles  of  life. 
If  he  had  another  name  he  never  made  me  his  confi 
dant  concerning  it.  We  had  many  talks,  Chucky  and 
I ;  generally  in  a  dingy  little  bar  on  Baxter  Street, 
where,  when  I  wearied  of  uptown  sights  and  smells,  I 
was  wont  to  meet  with  Chucky.  Never  did  Chucky 
call  on  me  nor  seek  me.  From  first  to  last  he  failed  not 
to  conduct  himself  towards  me  with  an  air  of  tolerant 
patronage.  When  together  I  did  the  buying  and  the 
listening,  and  Chucky  did  the  drinking  and  the  talking. 
It  was  on  such  occasion  when  Chucky  told  me  the 
story  of  Mulberry  Mary. 

"  Mary  was  born  in  Kelly's  Alley/'  remarked  Chucky, 
examining  in  a  thoughtful  way  his  mug  of  mixed  ale  ; 
"  Mary  was  born  in  Kelly's  Alley,  an'  say  !  she  wasn't 
no  squealer,  I  don't  t'ink. 

"  When  Mary  grows  up  an'  can  chase  about  an'  chin, 
she  toins  out  a  dead  good  kid  an'  goes  to  d'  Sisters' 
School.  At  this  time  I  don't  spot  Mary  in  p'ticler; 
she's  nothin'  but  a  sawed-off  kid,  an'  I'm  busy  wit*  me 
graft. 

"  D'  foist  I  really  knows  of  Mary  is  when  she  gets 
married.  She  hooks  up  wit'  Billy,  d'  moll-buzzard ; 

an'  say  !  he's  bad. 
8 


MULBERRY  MARY  9 

"  He  gets  his  lamps  on  Mary  at  Connorses  spiel, 
Billy  does  ;  an'  he's  stuck  on  her  in  a  hully  secont.  It's 
no  wonder  ;  Mary's  a  peach.  She's  d'  belle  of  d'  Bend, 
make  no  doubt. 

"  Billy's  graft  is  hangin'  round  d'  Bowery  bars,  layin' 
for  suckers.  An'  he  used  to  get  in  his  hooks  deep  an* 
clever  now  an'  then,  an'  most  times  Billy  could,  if  it's 
a  case  of  crowd,  flash  quite  a  bit  of  dough. 

"  So  when  Billy  sees  Mary  at  Connorses  spiel,  like  I 
says,  she's  such  a  bute  he  loses  his  nut.  You  needn't 
give  it  d'  laugh  !  Say  !  I  sees  d'  map  of  a  skirt — a  goil, 
I  means — on  a  drop  curtain  at  a  swell  t'eatre  onct,  an'  it 
says  under  it  she's  Cleopatra.  D'  mark  nex'  me  says, 
when  I  taps  for  a  tip,  this  Cleopatra's  from  Egypt,  an' 
makes  a  hit  in  d'  coochee  coochee  line,  wit'  d'  high 
push  of  d*  old  times,  see  !  An'  says  this  gezeybo  for  a 
finish :  *  This  Cleopatra  was  a  wonder  for  looks. 
She  was  d'  high-roller  tart  of  her  time,  an'  d'  beauti- 
fulest.' 

"  Now,  all  I  got  to  say  is,"  continued  Chucky,  re 
garding  me  with  a  challenging  air  of  decision  the  while  ; 
"  all  I  has  to  utter  is,  Mary  could  make  this  Cleopatra 
look  like  seven  cents  ! 

"  Well,"  resumed  Chucky,  as  I  made  no  comment, 
"  Billy  chases  up  to  Mary  an'  goes  in  to  give  her  d' 
jolly  of  her  life.  An',  say !  she's  pleased  all  right,  all 
right ;  I  can  see  it  be  her  mug. 

"  An'  Billy  goes  d'  limit.  He  orders  d'  beers  ;  an* 
when  he  pays,  Billy  springs  his  wad  on  Mary  an* 
counts  d'  bills  off  slow,  t'inkin'  it'll  razzle-dazzle  her. 
Then  Billy  tells  Mary  he's  out  to  be  her  steady. 

"  '  I've  got  money  to  boin,'  says  Billy,  '  an'  what  you 
wants  you  gets,  see ! '  An'  Billy  pulls  d'  long  green 


io  SANDBURRS 

ag'in  to  show  Mary  he's  dead  strong,  an'  d' money  aint 
no  dream. 

"  But  Mary  says  '  Nit !  couple  of  times  nit ! '  She 
says  she's  on  d'  level,  an'  no  steady  goes  wit'  her.  It's 
either  march  or  marry  wit'  Mary.  An'  so  she  lays  it 
down. 

"  That's  how  it  stands,  when  d'  nex'  news  we  hears 
Billy  an'  she  don't  do  a  t'ing  but  chase  off  to  a  w'ite- 
choker  ;  followin'  which  dey  grabs  off  a  garret  in  d1 
Astorbilt  tenement,  an'  goes  to  keepin'  house. 

"  But  Mary  breaks  in  on  Billy's  graft.  She  says  he's 
got  to  go  to  woik  ;  he'll  get  lagged  if  he  don't ;  an'  she 
won't  stand  for  no  husband  who  spends  half  d'  time 
wit'  her  an'  d'  rest  on  d'  Island.  So  he  cuts  loose  from 
d'  fly  mob  an'  leaves  d'  suckers  alone,  an'  hires  out  for 
a  tinsmith,  see ! 

"An*  here's  d'  luck  Billy  has.  It's  d'  secont  day  an' 
he's  fittin'  in  d'  tin  flashin'  round  a  chimbley  on  a  five- 
story  roof;  an'  mebby  it's  because  he  aint  used  to 
woik,  or  mebby  he  gets  funny  in  his  cupolo,  bein'  up 
so  high ;  anyhow  he  dives  down  to  d'  pavement,  an' 
when  he  lands,  you  bet  your  life!  Billy's  d'  deadest 
t'ing  that  ever  happened. 

"  Mary  goes  wild  an'  wrong  after  that.  In  half  of 
no  time  Mary  takes  to  chasin'  up  to  Mott  Street  an' 
hittin'  d'  pipe.  There's  a  Chink  up  there  who  can 
cook  d'  bop  out  o'  sight,  an'  it  aint  long  before  Mary 
is  hangin'  'round  his  joint  for  good.  It's  then  dey 
quits  callin'  her  Mulberry  Mary,  an'  she  goes  be  d' 
name  of  Mollie  d'  Dope. 

"  Mary  don't  last  in  d'  Chink  swim  more'n  a  year 
before  there's  bats  in  her  belfry  for  fair ;  any  old  stiff 
wit'  lamps  could  see  it ;  an'  so  folks  gets  leary  of  Mary. 


MULBERRY    MARY."—  Page    IO. 


MULBERRY  MARY  II 

"  It  runs  on  mebby  two  years  after  Billy  does  that 
stunt  from  d'  roof,  see !  when  there's  a  fire  an'  all  d' 
kids  run  an'  screeched,  an'  all  d'  folks  hollered,  an'  all 
d'  engines  comes  an'  lams  loose  to  put  it  out.  D'  fire's 
in  a  tenement,  an'  d'  folks  who  was  in  it  has  skipped, 
so  it's  just  d'  joint  itself  is  boinin'. 

"  All  at  onct  a  kid  looks  out  d'  fort'  story  window 
wit'  d'  fire  shinin'  behint  him.  You  can  see  be  d'  little 
mark's  mug  he's  got  an  awful  scare  t'run  into  him, 
t'inkin'  he's  out  to  boin  in  d'  buildin'. 

"  '  It's  McManuses'  Chamsey  ! '  says  one  old  Tommy, 
lettin'  her  hair  down  her  back  an'  givin'  a  yell,  '  Some 
body  save  McManuses'  Chamsey  ! ' 

"  '  Let  me  save  him  ! '  says  Mary,  at  d'  same  time 
laughin'  wild.  '  Let  me  save  him  ;  I  want  to  save  him  ! 
I'm  only  Mollie  d'  Dope — Mollie  d'  hop  fiend — an*  if 
I  gets  it  in  d'  neck  it  don't  count,  see  ! ' 

"  Mary  goes  up  in  d'  smoke  an'  d'  fire,  no  one  knows 
how,  wit'  d'  water  pourin'  from  d'  hose,  an'  d'  boards 
an'  glass  a-fallin*  an'  a-crashin',  an'  she  brings  out  Mc 
Manuses'  Chamsey.  Saves  him ;  on  d'  dead !  she 
does;  an'  boins  all  d'  hair  off  her  cocoa  doin'  it. 

"  Well,  of  course  d'  fire  push  stan's  in  an'  gives  Mary 
all  sorts  of  guff  an'  praise.  Mary  only  laughs  an'  says, 
while  d'  amb'lance  guy  is  doin'  up  her  head,  that  folks 
ain't  onto  her  racket ;  that  she  d'  soonest  frail  that  ever 
walks  in  d'  Bend." 

At  this  juncture  Chucky  desired  another  mixed  ale. 
He  got  it,  and  after  a  long,  damp  pause  he  resumed 
his  thread. 

"  Now  what  do  youse  t'ink  of  this  for  a  finish  ?  It's 
weeks  ago  d'  fire  is.  Mary  meets  up  wit'  McManuses' 
Chamsey  to-day — she's  been  followin'  him  a  good  deal 


12  SANDBURRS 

since  she  saves  him — an'  as  Chamsey  is  only  six  years 
old,  he  don't  know  nothin',  an'  falls  to  Mary's  lead. 
It's  an  easy  case  of  bunk,  an'  Chamsey  only  six  years 
old  like  that ! 

"  Mary  gives  Chamsey  d'  gay  face  an'  wins  him  right 
off.  She  buys  him  posies  of  one  Dago  an'  sugar  candy 
of  another ;  an'  then  she  passes  Chamsey  a  strong  tip, 
he's  missin'  d'  sights  be  not  goin'  down  to  d'  East 
River. 

"  Here's  what  Mary  does — she  takes  Chamsey  down 
be  d'  docks — a  longshoreman  loafin'  hears  what  she 
says.  Mary  tells  Chamsey  to  look  at  all  d'  chimbleys 
an'  d'  smoke  comin'  out ! 

"'An'  in  every  one  there's  fire  makin' d'  smoke/ 
says  Mary.  '  T'ink  of  all  d'  fires  there  must  be, 
Chamsey!  I'll  bet  Hell  ain't  got  any  more  fires  in  it 
than  d'  woild  !  Do  youse  remember,  Chamsey,  how 
d'  fire  was  goin'  to  boin  you?  Now,  I'll  tell  you  what 
we'll  do,  so  d'  fire  never  will  boin  us;  we'll  jump  in, — 
you  an'  me  ! ' 

"  An'  wit'  that,  so  d'  longshoreman  says,  Mary  nails 
Chamsey  be  d'  neck  wit'  her  left  hook  an'  hops  into 
d'  drink.  Yes,  dey  was  drowned — d'  brace  of  'em. 
Dey's  over  to  d'  dead  house  now  on  a  slab — Mary  an' 
McManuses'  Chamsey. 

"  What  makes  me  so  wet  ?  I  gets  to  d'  dock  a 
minute  too  late  to  save  'em,  but  I'm  right  in  time  to 
dive  up  d'  stiffs.  So  I  dives  'em  up.  It's  easy  money. 
That's  what  makes  me  cuffs  look  like  ruffles  an'  me 
collar  like  a  corset  string."  And  here  Chucky  called 
for  a  third  mixed  ale,  as  a  sign  that  his  talk  was  done. 


SINGLETREE  JENNINGS 

IT  was  evening  in  Jordan  Hollow,  and  Singletree 
Jennings  stood  leaning  on  his  street  gate.  Singletree 
Jennings  was  a  coloured  man,  and,  to  win  his  bread, 
played  many  parts  in  life.  He  was  a  whitewasher  ;  he 
sold  fish  ;  he  made  gardens ;  and  during  the  social 
season  he  was  frequently  the  "  old  family  butler," 
in  white  cotton  gloves,  at  the  receptions  of  divers 
families. 

"  I'm  a  pore  man,  honey  !  "  Singletree  Jennings  was 
wont  to  say ;  "  but  dar  was  a  time  when  me  an'  my 
ole  Delia  was  wuf  $1,800.  Kase  why?  Kase  we 
brought  it  at  auction,  when  Marse  Roundtree  died — 
didn't  we,  Delia?" 

This  was  one  of  Singletree  Jennings's  jokes. 

"  But  pore  man  or  no  !  "  Singletree  Jennings  would 
conclude,  "  as  de  Lamb  looks  down  an'  sees  me,  I 
never  wronged  a  man  outen  so  much  as  a  blue-laiged 
chicken  in  my  life." 

This  evening  Singletree  Jennings  was  a  prey  to  de 
jection.  Nor  could  he  account  for  his  gloom.  His 
son  opened  the  gate  and  went  whistling  up  the  street. 

"  Clambake  Jennings,  whar  yo'  gwine?  "  asked  Sing 
letree  Jennings. 

"  Gwine  ter  shoot  craps." 

"  Have  yo'  got  yer  rabbit's  foot  ? 

"  Yassir." 


14  SANDBURRS 

"  An'  de  snake's  head  outen  de  clock?  " 

"  Yassir." 

Singletree  Jennings  relapsed  into  moody  silence,  and 
Clambake  passed  on  and  away. 

The  shouts  and  cries  of  some  storm-rocked  multi 
tude  was  heard  up  the  street.  The  Columbia  College 
boys  were  taking  home  their  new  eight-oared  boat. 
The  shouts  settled  into  something  like  the  barking  of 
a  dog.  It  was  the  crew  emitting  the  college  cry. 

"What's  dat?"  demanded  Delia  Jennings,  coming 
to  the  door. 

"  De  Lawd  save  us  ef  I  knows ! "  said  Singletree 
Jennings  ;  "  onless  it's  one  of  dem  yar  bond  issues 
dey's  so  'fraid'll  happen." 

The  tones  of  Singletree  Jennings  showed  that  he 
was  ill  at  ease. 

"  What's  de  matter,  Daddy  Singletree  ?"  demanded 
the  observant  Delia. 

"  I've  got  a  present'ment,  I  reckon  !  "  said  Singletree 
Jennings.  "  I'm  pow'ful  feard  dar'll  somethin'  bust 
loose  wrong  about  dat  Andrew  Jackson  goat." 

Singletree  Jennings  was  the  owner  and  business 
manager  of  a  goat  named  Andrew  Jackson.  In  the 
winter  Singletree  Jennings  never  came  home  without 
an  armful  of  straw  for  Andrew  Jackson.  In  the  sum 
mer  there  was  no  need  of  straw.  Andrew  Jackson 
then  ate  the  shirts  off  the  neighbour's  clothes-lines. 
Andrew  Jackson  had  been  known  to  eat  the  raiment 
off  a  screaming  child,  and  then  lower  his  frontlet  at 
the  rescue  party.  Andrew  Jackson  was  a  large,  im 
pressive  goat;  yet  he  never  joked  nor  gave  way  to 
mirth.  Ordinarily,  Andrew  Jackson  was  a  calm,  placid 
goat ;  aroused,  he  was  an  engine  of  destruction. 


SINGLETREE  JENNINGS  15 

All  of  these  peculiarities  were  explained  by  Single 
tree  Jennings  when  Sam  Hardtack  and  Backfence  Ran 
dolph,  a  committee  acting  on  behalf  of  the  Othello 
Dramatic  Club,  desired  the  loan  of  Andrew  Jackson. 
The  church  to  which  Singletree  Jennings  belonged  was 
programming  a  social  this  very  night,  and  divers  and 
sundry  tableaux,  under  the  direction  of  the  Othello 
Dramatic  Club,  were  on  the  card.  It  was  esteemed 
necessary  by  those  in  control  to  present  as  a  tableau 
Abraham  slaying  Isaac.  There  was  a  paucity  of  sheep 
about,  and  Andrew  Jackson,  in  this  dearth  of  the  real 
thing,  was  cast  to  play  the  character  of  the  Ram  in 
the  Bush. 

"  An'  Andrew  Jackson  is  boun'  to  fetch  loose,"  re 
flected  Singletree  Jennings,  with  a  shake  of  his  head ; 
"  an'  when  he  does,  he'll  jes'  go  knockin'  'round  among 
de  congregashun  like  a  blind  dog  in  a  meat  shop  !  " 
****** 

Singletree  Jennings's  worst  fears  were  realised.  It 
was  nine  o'clock  now,  and  he  and  Delia  had  come 
down  to  the  social.  Andrew  Jackson  had  been  re 
strained  of  his  liberty  for  the  previous  four  hours  and 
held  captive  in  a  drygoods'  box.  He  was  now  in  a 
state  of  frenzy.  When  the  curtain  went  up  on  Abra 
ham  and  Isaac,  Andrew  Jackson  burst  his  bonds  at 
the  rear  of  the  stage  and  bore  down  on  the  Hebrew 
father  and  son  like  the  breath  of  destiny.  Andrew 
Jackson  came,  dragging  his  bush  with  him.  The  bush 
was,  of  course,  a  welcome  addition.  Abraham  saw  him 
coming,  and  fled  into  the  lap  of  a  fiddler.  Isaac,  how 
ever,  wasn't  faced  that  way.  Andrew  Jackson  smote 
Isaac  upon  the  starboard  quarter.  It  was  a  follow, 
shot,  rather  than  a  carom,  and  Andrew  Jackson  and 


16  SANDBURRS 

his  prey  landed  in  the  middle  of  the  audience  together. 
For  two  minutes  Andrew  Jackson  mingled  freely  with 
the  people  present,  and  then  retired  by  the  back  door. 

**  I  knowed  destrucshun  was  a-comin' !  "  murmured 
Singletree  Jennings.  "  I  ain't  felt  dat  pestered,  Delia, 
since  de  day  I  concealed  my  'dentity  in  Marse  Round- 
tree's  smokehouse,  an'  dey  cotched  me  at  it." 

"  Singletree  Jennings ! "  observed  the  Reverend 
Handout  F.  Johnson,  in  a  tone  of  solemn  anger,  while 
his  pistol  pocket  still  throbbed  from  the  visitation  of 
Andrew  Jackson,  "  Elder  Shakedown  Bixby  is  in  pur 
suit  of  dat  goat  of  your'n  with  a  razor.  He  has  orders 
to  immolate  when  cotched.  At  de  nex'  conference 
dar'll  be  charges  ag'in  you  for  substitutin'  a  deboshed 
goat  for  de  Ram  of  Holy  Writ.  I  keers  nothin'  for 
my  pussonel  sufferin's,  but  de  purity  of  de  Word  mus' 
be  protected.  De  congregashun  will  now  join  in  singin' 
de  pestilential  Psalms,  after  which  de  social  will  dis 
perse." 


JESS 

IT  was  sunset  at  the  Cross-K  ranch.  Four  or  five 
cowboys  were  gloomily  about  outside  the  adobe  ranch 
house,  awaiting  supper.  The  Mexican  cook  had  just 
begun  his  fragrant  task,  so  a  half  hour  would  elapse 
before  these  Arabs  were  fed.  Their  ponies  were 
"  turned "  into  the  wire  pasture,  their  big  Colorado 
saddles  reposed  astride  the  low  pole  fence  which  sur 
rounded  the  house,  and  it  was  evident  their  riding  was 
over  for  the  day. 

Why  were  they  gloomy  ?  Not  a  boy  of  them  could 
tell.  They  had  been  partners  and  campaneros,  and 
"  worked  "  the  Cross-K  cattle  together  for  months,  and 
nothing  had  come  in  misunderstanding  or  cloud.  The 
ranch  house  was  their  home,  and  theirs  had  been  the 
unity  of  brothers. 

The  week  before,  a  pretty  girl — the  daughter  she 
was  of  a  statesman  of  national  repute — had  come  to 
the  ranch  from  the  East.  Her  name  was  Jess. 

Jess,  the  pretty  girl,  was  protected  in  this  venture  by 
an  old  and  gnarled  aunt,  watchful  as  a  ferret,  sour  as  a 
lime.  Not  that  Jess,  the  pretty  girl,  needed  watching  ; 
she  was,  indeed  !  propriety's  climax. 

No  soft  nor  dulcet  reason  wooed  Jess,  the  pretty 
girl,  to  the  West;  she  came  on  no  love  errand.     The 
visitor  was  elegantly  tired  of  the   East,  that  was  all ; 
and  longed  for  western  air  and  western  panorama. 
*  17 


i8  SANDBURRS 

Jess,  the  pretty  girl,  had  been  at  the  Cross-K  ranch 
a  week,  and  the  boys  had  met  her,  everyone.  The 
meeting  or  meetings  were  marked  by  awkwardness  as 
to  the  boys,  indifference  as  to  Jess,  the  pretty  girl. 
She  encountered  them  as  she  did  the  ponies,  cows, 
horned-toads  and  other  animals,  domestic  and  ferce 
natures,  indigenous  to  eastern  Arizona.  While  every 
cowboy  was  blushingly  conscious  of  Jess,  the  pretty 
girl,  she  was  serenely  guiltless  of  giving  him  a  thought. 

Before  Jess,  the  pretty  girl,  arrived,  the  cowboys 
were  friends  and  the  tenor  of  their  calm  relations  was 
rippleless  as  a  mirror.  Jess  was  not  there  a  day,  be 
fore  each  drew  himself  insensibly  from  the  others, 
while  a  vague  hostility  shone  dimly  in  his  eyes.  It 
was  the  instinct  of  the  fighting  male  animal  aroused  by 
the  presence  of  Jess,  the  pretty  girl.  Jess,  however, 
proceeded  on  her  dainty  way,  sweetly  ignorant  of  the 
sentiments  she  awakened. 

Men  are  mere  animals.  Women  are,  too,  for  that 
matter.  But  the  latter  are  different  animals  from  men. 
The  effort  the  race  makes  to  be  other,  better  or  differ 
ent  than  the  mere  animal  fails  under  pressure.  It 
always  failed ;  it  will  always  fail.  Civilisation  is  the 
veriest  veneer  and  famously  thin.  A  year  on  the 
plains  cracks  this  veneer — this  shell — and  the  animal 
issues  visibly  forth.  This  shell-cracking  comes  by  the 
expanding  growth  of  all  that  is  animalish  in  man- 
attributes  of  the  physical  being,  fed  and  pampered  by 
a  plains'  existence. 

To  recur  to  the  boys  of  the  Cross-K.  The  dark, 
vague,  impalpable  differences  which  cut  off  each  of 
these  creatures  from  his  fellows,  and  inspired  him  with 
an  unreasoning  hate,  had  flourished  with  the  brief  week 


JESS  19 

of  their  existence.  A  philosopher  would  have  .ooked 
for  near  trouble  on  the  Cross-K. 

"  Whatever  did  you  take  my  saddle  for,  Bill  ?  "  said 
Jack  Cook  to  one  Bill  Watkins. 

"  Which  I  allows  I'll  ride  it  some,"  replied  Watkins; 
"  thought  it  might  like  to  pack  a  sure-'nough  long-horn 
jest  once  for  luck!  " 

"  Well,  don't  maverick  it  no  more,"  retorted  Cook, 
moodily,  and  ignoring  the  gay  insolence  of  the  other. 
"  Leastwise,  don't  come  a-takin'  of  it,  an'  sayin'  nothin'. 
You  can  palaver  Americano,  can't  you?  When  you 
aims  to  ride  my  saddle  ag'in,  ask  for  it ;  if  you  can't 
talk,  make  signs,  an'  if  you  can't  make  signs,  shake 
a  bush  ;  but  don't  go  romancin'  off  in  silence  with  no 
saddle  of  mine  no  more." 

"  Whatever  do  you  reckon  is  liable  to  happen  if  I 
pulls  it  ag'in  to-morry?"  inquired  Bill  in  high  scorn. 

Watkins  was  of  a  more  vivacious  temper  than  the 
gloomy  Cook. 

"  Which  if  you  takes  it  ag'in,  I'll  shorely  come 
among  you  a  whole  lot.  An*  some  prompt !  "  replied 
Cook,  in  a  tone  of  obstinate  injury. 

These  boys  were  brothers  before  Jess,  the  pretty 
girl,  appeared.  Either  would  have  gone  afoot  all  day 
for  the  other.  Going  afoot,  too,  is  the  last  thing  a 
cowboy  will  consent  to. 

"  Don't  you-all  fail  to  come  among  me  none,"  said 
Bill  with  cheerful  ferocity,  "  on  account  of  it's  bein' 
me.  I  crosses  the  trail  of  a  hold-up  like  you  over  in 
the  Panhandle  once,  an'  makes  him  dance,  an'  has  a 
chuck-waggon  full  of  fun  with  him." 

"  Stop  your  millin'  now,  right  yere ! "  said  Tom 
Rawlins,  the  Cross-K  range  boss,  who  was  sitting  close 


20  SANDBURRS 

at  hand.  "  You-alls  spring  trouble  'round  yere,  an1 
you  can  gamble  I'll  be  in  it !  Whatever's  the  matter 
with  you-alls  anyway?  Looks  like  you've  been  as 
locoed  as  a  passel  of  sore-head  dogs  for  more'n  a  week 
now.  Which  you're  shorely  too  many  for  me,  an'  I 
plumb  gives  you  up  !  "  And  Rawlins  shook  his  sage 
head  foggily. 

The  boys  started  some  grumbling  reply,  but  the 
cook  called  them  to  supper  just  then,  and,  one  animal 
ism  becoming  overshadowed  by  another,  they  forgot 
their  rancour  in  thoughts  of  supplying  their  hunger. 
Towards  the  last  of  the  repast,  Rawlins  arose,  and 
going  to  another  room,  began  overlooking  some  entries 
in  the  ranch  books. 

Jess,  the  pretty  girl,  did  not  sit  at  the  ranch  table. 
She  had  small  banquets  in  her  own  room.  Just  then 
she  was  heard  singing  some  tender  little  song  that 
seemed  born  of  a  sigh  and  a  tear.  The  boys'  resent 
ment  of  each  other  began  again  to  burn  in  their  eyes. 
None  of  these  savages  was  in  the  least  degree  in  love 
with  Jess,  the  pretty  girl. 

The  singing  went  on  in  a  cooing,  soft  way  that 
did  not  bring  you  the  words  ;  only  the  music. 

"  What  I  says  about  my  saddle  a  while  back,  goes 
as  it  lays ! "  said  Jack  Cook. 

The  song  had  ceased. 

As  Cook  spoke  he  turned  a  dark  look  on  Watkins. 

"  See  yere ! "  replied  Watkins  in  an  exasperated 
tone — he  was  as  vicious  as  Cook — "  if  you're  p'intin* 
out  for  a  war-jig  with  me,  don't  go  stampin'  'round 
none  for  reasons.  Let  her  roll !  Come  a-runnin'  an' 
don't  pester  none  with  ceremony." 

"  Which  a  gent  don't  have  to  have  no  reason  for 


JESS  21 

crawlin'  you ! "  said  Cook.  "  Anyone's  licenced  to 
chase  you  'round  jest  for  exercise ! " 

"You  can  gamble,"  said  Watkins,  confidently, 
"  any  party  as  chases  me  'round  much,  will  regyard  it 
as  a  thrillin'  pastime.  Which  it  won't  grow  on  him 
none  as  a  habit." 

"As  you-all  seem  to  feel  that  a-way,"  said  the  darkly 
wrathful  Cook,  "  I'll  sorter  step  out  an'  shoot  with 
you  right  now  !  " 

"  An'  I'll  shorely  go  you  !  "  said  Watkins. 

They  arose  and  walked  to  the  door.  It  was  gather 
ing  dark,  but  it  was  light  enough  to  shoot  by.  The 
other  cowboys  followed  in  a  kind  of  savage  silence. 
Not  one  word  was  said  in  comment  or  objection. 
They  were  grave,  but  passive  like  Indians.  It  is  not 
good  form  to  interfere  with  other  people's  affairs  in 
Arizona. 

Jess,  the  pretty  girl,  began  singing  again.  The 
strains  fell  softly  on  the  ears  of  the  cowboys.  Each, 
as  he  listened,  whether  onlooker  or  principal,  felt  a 
licking,  pleased  anticipation  of  the  blood  to  be  soon 
set  flowing. 

Nothing  was  said  of  distance.  Cook  and  Watkins 
separated  to  twenty  paces  and  turned  to  face  each 
other.  Each  wore  his  six-shooter,  the  loose  pistol  belt 
letting  it  rest  low  on  his  hip.  Each  threw  down  his 
big  hat  and  stood  at  apparent  ease,  with  his  thumbs 
caught  in  his  belt. 

"  Shall  you  give  the  word,  or  me  ?  "  asked  Cook. 

"  You  says  when  !  "  retorted  Watkins.  "  It'll  be  a 
funny  passage  in  American  history  if  you-all  gets 
your  gun  to  the  front  any  sooner  than  I  do." 

"  Be  you  ready  ?  "  asked  Cook. 


22  SANDBURRS 

"  Which  I'm  shorely  ready  !  " 

"  Then,  go  !  " 

"  Bang  !  Bang  ! !  Bang  ! ! !  "  went  both  pistols  to 
gether. 

The  reports  came  with  a  rapidity  not  to  be  counted. 
Cook  got  a  crease  in  the  face — a  mere  wound  of  the 
flesh.  Watkins  blundered  forward  with  a  bullet  in 
his  side. 

Rawlins  ran  out.  His  experience  taught  him  all  at 
a  look.  Hastily  examining  Cook,  he  discovered  that 
his  hurt  was  nothing  serious.  The  others  carried  Wat- 
kins  into  the  house. 

"  Take  my  pony  saddled  at  the  fence,  Jack,"  said 
Rawlins,  "  an*  pull  your  freight.  This  yere  Watkins  is 
goin'  to  die.  You've  planted  him." 

"  Which  I  shorely  hopes  I  has !  "  said  Cook,  with 
bitter  cheerfulness.  "  I  ain't  got  no  use  for  cattle  of 
his  brand  ;  none  whatever !  " 

Cook  took  Rawlins's  pony.  When  he  paused,  the 
pony  hung  his  head  while  his  flanks  steamed  and 
quivered.  And  no  marvel !  That  pony  was  one 
hundred  miles  from  the  last  corn,  as  he  cooled  his  ner 
vous  muzzle  in  the  Rio  San  Simon. 

"  Some  deviltry  about  their  saddles,  Miss  ;  that's 
all !  "  reported  Rawlins  to  Jess,  the  pretty  girl. 

"  Isn't  it  horrible  !  "  shuddered  Jess,  the  pretty  girl. 

The  next  morning  Jess  and  the  gnarled  aunt  paid 
the  injured  Watkins  a  visit.  This  civility  affected  the 
other  three  cowboys  invidiously.  They  at  once  de 
parted  to  a  line  of  Cross-K  camps  in  the  Northwest. 
This  on  a  pretence  of  working  cattle  over  on  the  Co- 
chise  Mesa.  They  looked  black  enough  as  they  galloped 
away. 


\V  ATKINS    BLUNDERED    FORWARD." — Page   22. 


* c     c  '  '  *       f 

'      ' 


JESS  23 

"  Which  it's  shore  a  sin  Jack  Cook  ain't  no  better 
pistol  shot !  "  observed  one,  as  the  acrid  picture  of  Jess, 
the  pretty  girl,  sympathising  above  the  wounded  Wat- 
kins,  arose  before  him. 

"  That's  whatever  !  "  assented  the  others. 

Then,  in  moods  of  grim  hatefulness,  they  bled  their 
tired  ponies  with  the  spur  by  way  of  emphasis. 


THE  HUMMING  BIRD 
(ANNALS  OF   THE   BEND) 

"  NlT ;  I'm  in  a  hurry  to  chase  meself  to-night," 
quoth  Chucky,  having  first,  however,  taken  his  drink. 
"  I'd  like  to  stay  an'  chin  wit'  youse,  but  I  can't.  D* 
fact  is  I've  got  company  over  be  me  joint ;  he's  a  dead 
good  fr'end  of  mine,  see  !  Leastwise  he  has  been  ;  an* 
more'n  onct,  when  I'm  in  d'  hole,  he's  reached  me  his 
mit  an*  pulled  me  out.  Now  he's  down  on  his  luck 
I'm  goin'  to  make  good,  an'  for  an  even  break  on  past 
favours,  see  if  I  can't  straighten  up  his  game." 

"  Who  is  your  friend  ?  "  I  asked.  "  Does  he  live 
here  ?  " 

"  Naw,"  retorted  Chucky  ;  "  he's  a  crook,  an'  don't 
live  nowhere.  His  name's  Mollie  Matches,  an'  d'  day 
was  when  Mollie's  d'  flyest  fine-woiker  on  Byrnes's 
books.  An'  say !  that  ain't  no  fake  neither." 

"  What  did  he  do  ?  "     I  inquired. 

"  Leathers,  supers  an'  rocks,"  replied  Chucky.  "  Of 
course,  d'  supers  has  to  be  yellow  ;  d'  w'ite  kind  don't 
pay;  an'  d'  rocks  has  to  be  d'  real  t'ing.  In  d'  old 
day,  Mollie  was  d'  king  of  d'  dips,  for  fair  !  Of  all  d' 
crooks  he  was  d'  nob,  an'  many's  d'  time  I've  seen  him 
come  into  d'  Gran'  Central  wit'  his  t'ree  stalls  an'  a 
Sheeny  kid  to  carry  d'  swag,  an'  all  as  swell  a  mob  as 
ever  does  time. 
24 


THE  HUMMING  BIRD  25 

"  But  he's  fell  be  d'  wayside  now,  an'  don't  youse 
forget  it !  Not  only  is  he  broke  for  dough,  but  his 
healt'  is  busted,  too." 

"  That's  one  of  the  strange  things  to  me,  Chucky," 
I  said,  for  I  was  disposed  to  detain  him  if  I  could,  and 
hear  a  bit  more  of  his  devious  friend  ;  "  one  of  the 
very  strange  things !  Here's  your  friend  Mollie,  who 
has  done  nothing,  so  you  say,  but  steal  watches,  dia 
monds  and  pocket-books  all  his  life,  and  yet  to-day  he 
is  without  a  dollar." 

"  Oh !  as  for  that,"  returned  Chucky  wisely,  "  a 
crook  don't  make  so  much.  In  d'  foist  place,  if  he's 
nippin'  leathers,  nine  out  of  ten  of  'em's  bound  to  be 
readers — no  long  green  in  'em  at  all ;  nothin'  but  poi- 
pers,  see  !  An*  if  he's  pinchin'  tickers  an'  sparks,  a 
fence  won't  pay  more'n  a  fort'  what  dey's  wort' — an' 
there  you  be,  see !  Then  ag'in,  it  costs  a  hundred 
plunks  a  day  to  keep  a  mob  on  d'  road  ;  an'  what  wit* 
puttin'  up  to  d'  p'lice  for  protection,  an'  what  wit* 
squarin'  a  con  or  brakey  if  youse  are  graftin'  on  a  train, 
there  ain't,  after  his  stalls  has  their  bits,  much  left  for 
Mollie.  Takin'  it  over  all,  Mollie's  dead  lucky  to  get 
a  hundred  out  of  a  t'ousand  plunks;  an'  yet  he's  d' 
mug  who  has  to  put  his  hooks  on  d'  stuff  every  time  ; 
do  d'  woik  an'  take  d'  chances,  see ! 

"  But  I'll  tip  it  off  to  youse,"  continued  Chucky,  at 
the  same  time  lowering  his  tone  confidentially ;  "I'll 
put  you  on  to  what  knocks  Mollie's  eye  out  just  now. 
He's  only  a  week  ago  toined  out  of  one  of  de  western 
pens,  an'  I  reckon  he  was  bad  wit'  'em  at  d'  finish — 
givin'  'em  a  racket.  Anyhow,  dey  confers  on  Mollie 
d'  Hummin'  Boid,  an  dey  overplays.  Mollie's  gettin* 
old,  and  can't  stand  for  what  he  could  onct ;  an',  as 


26  SANDBURRS 

I  says,  these  prison  marks  gives  him  too  much  of  d' 
Hummin'  Boid  and  it  breaks  his  noive. 

"  Sure  !  Mollie's  now  what  youse  call  hyster'cal ;  got 
bats  in  his  steeple  half  d'  time.  If  it  wasn't  for  d'  hop 
I  shoots  into  him  wit'  a  dandy  little  hypodermic  gun 
me  Rag's  got,  he'd  be  in  d'  booby  house.  An'  all  for 
too  much  Hummin'  Boid !  Say !  on  d'  level !  there 
ought  to  be  a  law  ag'inst  it." 

"  What  in  heaven's  name  is  the  Humming  Bird  ?  "  I 
queried. 

"  It's  d'  prison  punishment,"  replied  Chucky.  "  Youse 
see,  every  pen  has  its  punishment.  In  some,  it's  d' 
paddles,  an'  some  ag'in  don't  do  a  t'ing  but  hang  a  guy 
up  be  a  pair  of  handcuffs  to  his  cell  door  so  his  toes 
just  scrapes  d'  floor.  In  others  dey  starves  you  ;  an* 
in  others  still,  dey  slams  you  in  d'  dark  hole. 

"  Say !  if  youse  are  out  to  make  some  poor  mark 
nutty  for  fair,  just  give  him  d'  dark  hole  for  a  week. 
There  he  is  wit*  nothin'  in  d'  cell  but  himself,  see  !  an* 
all  as  black  as  ink.  Mebby  if  d'  guards  is  out  to  keep 
him  movin',  dey  toins  d'  hose  in  an'  wets  down  d' 
floor  before  dey  leaves  him.  But  honest  to  God  ! 
youse  put  a  poor  sucker  in  d'  dark  hole,  an*  be  d'  end 
of  ten  hours  it's  apples  to  ashes  he  ain't  onto  it 
whether  he's  been  in  a  day  or  a  week.  Keep  him 
there  a  week,  an'  away  goes  his  cupolo — he  ain't  onto 
nothin'.  On  d'  square  !  at  d'  end  of  a  week  in  d'dark, 
a  mut  don't  know  he's  livin'. 

"  D'  cat-o'nine-tails,  which  dey  has  at  Jeff  City, 
ain't  a  marker  to  d'  dark  hole  !  D'  cat'll  crack  d'  skin 
all  right,  all  right,  but  d'  dark  hole  cracks  a  sucker's 
nut,  see !  His  cocoa  never  is  on  straight  ag'in,  after 
he's  done  a  stunt  or  two  in  d'  dark  hole." 


THE  HUMMING  BIRD  27 

"  But  the  Humming  Bird  ?  "  I  persisted.  "  What  is 
it  like?" 

"  Why !  as  I  relates,"  retorted  Chucky,  "  df  Hummin 
Boid  is  what  dey  does  to  a  guy  in  d'  pen  where  Mollie 
was  to  teach  him  not  to  be  too  gay.  It's  like  this : 
Here's  a  gezebo  doin'  time,  see  !  Well,  he  gets  funny. 
Mebby  he  soaks  some  other  pris'ner ;  or  mebby  he 
toins  loose  and  gives  it  to  some  guard  in  d'  neck ;  or 
mebby  ag'in  he  kicks  on  d'  lock-step.  I've  seen  a  heap 
of  mugs  who  does  d'  last. 

"  Anyhow,  whatever  he  does,  it  gets  to  be  a  case  of 
Hummin'  Boid,  an'  dey  brings  me  gay  scrapper  or 
kicker,  whichever  he  is,  out  for  punishment.  An'  this 
is  what  he  gets  ag'inst : 

"  Dey  sets  him  in  a  high  trough,  same  as  dey  waters 
a  horse  wit',  see  !  Foist  dey  shucks  d'  mark — peels  off 
his  make-up  down  tod'  buff.  An'  then  dey  sets  him 
in  d'  trough,  like  I  says,  wit'  mebby  its  eight  inches  of 
water  in  it. 

"  Then  he's  strapped  be  d'  ankles,  an'  d'  fins,  and 
about  his  waist,  so  he  can't  do  nothin'  but  stay  where  he 
is.  A  sawbones  gets  him  be  d'  pulse,  an'  one  of  them 
'lectrical  stiffs  t'rows  a  wire,  which  is  one  end  of  d' 
battery,  in  d'  water.  D'  wire,  which  is  d'  other  end, 
finishes  in  a  wet  sponge.  An'  say  !  hully  hell !  when 
dey  touches  a  poor  mark  wit'  d'  sponge  end  on  d' 
shoulder,  or  mebby  d'  elbow,  it  completes  d'  circuit, 
see !  an'  it'll  fetch  such  a  glory  hallelujah  yelp  out  of 
him  as  would  bring  a  deef  an'  dumb  asylum  into  d' 
front  yard  to  find  out  what  d'  row's  about. 

"  It's  d'  same  t'ing  as  d'  chair  at  Sing  Sing,  only  not 
so  warm.  It's  enough,  though,  to  make  d'  toughest 
mug  t'row  a  fit.  No  one  stands  for  a  secont  trip ;  one 


28  SANDBURRS 

touch  of  d'  Hummin'  Bold!  an'  a  duck'll  welch  on 
anyt'ing  you  says  — do  anyt'ing,  be  anyt'ing;  only  so 
youse  let  up  and  don't  give  him  no  more.  D'  mere 
name  of  Hummin'  Boid's  good  enough  to  t'run  a  scare 
into  d'  hardest  an'  d'woist  of  'em,  onct  dey's  had  a  piece. 
"  As  I  says  about  Mollie :  it  seems  them  Indians 
gives  him  d'  Hummin'  Boid;  an'  dey  gives  him  d'  gaff 
too  deep.  But  I've  got  to  chase  meself  now,  and  pump 
some  dope  into  him.  I  ought  to  land  Mollie  right  side 
up  in  a  week.  An'  then  I'll  bring  him  over  to  this 
boozin*  ken  of  ours,  an'  cap  youse  a  knock-down  to  him. 
Talta!" 


GASSY  THOMPSON,  VILLAIN 

WESTERN  humour  is  being  severely  spoken  of  by 
the  close  personal  friends  of  Peter  Dean.  Less  than  a 
year  ago,  Peter  Dean  left  the  paternal  roof  on  Madison 
'Avenue  and  plunged  into  the  glowing  West.  On  the 
day  of  his  departure  he  was  twenty-three ;  not  a  ripe 
age.  He  had  studied  mining  and  engineering,  and 
knew  in  those  matters  all  that  science  could  tell.  His 
purpose  in  going  West  was  to  acquire  the  practical 
part  of  his  chosen  profession.  Peter  Dean  believed  in 
knowing  it  all ;  knowing  it  with  the  hands  as  well  as 
with  the  head. 

Thus  it  befell  that  young  Peter  Dean,  on  a  day  to 
be  remembered,  tossed  a  careless  kiss  to  his  companions 
and  fled  away  into  the  heart  of  the  continent.  Then 
his  hair  was  raven  black.  Months  later,  when  he 
returned,  it  was  silver  white.  Western  humour  had 
worked  the  change ;  therefore  the  criticism  chronicled. 
Peter  Dean  tells  the  following  story  of  the  bleaching : 

"At  Creede  I  met  a  person  named  Thompson; 
*  Gassy  '  Thompson  he  was  called  by  those  about  him, 
in  testimony  to  his  powers  as  a  conversationist.  A  bar 
keeper,  who  seemed  the  best-informed  and  most  gen 
tlemanly  soul  in  town,  told  me  that  Gassy  Thompson 
was  a  miner  full  of  practical  skill,  and  that  he  was  then 
engaged  in  sinking  a  shaft.  I  might  arrange  with 
Gassy  and  learn  the  business.  At  the  barkeeper's 
hint,  I  proposed  as  much  to  G  issy  Thompson. 

29 


30  SANDBURRS 

"  '  All  right ! '  said  Gassy ;  '  come  out  to  the  shaft 
to-morrow.' 

"  The  next  day  I  was  at  the  place  appointed.  The 
shaft  was  already  fifty  feet  deep.  Besides  myself  and 
this  person,  Gassy,  who  was  to  tutor  me,  there  was  a 
creature  named  Jim.  This  made  three  of  us. 

"  At  the  suggestion  of  Gassy,  he  and  I  descended 
into  the  shaft ;  Jim  was  left  on  the  surface.  We  went 
down  by  means  of  a  bucket,  Jim  unwinding  us  from  a 
rickety  old  windlass. 

"  Once  down,  Gassy  and  I,  with  sledge  and  drill, 
perpetrated  a  hole  in  the  bottom  of  the  shaft.  I  held 
the  drill,  Gassy  wielding  the  sledge.  When  the  hole 
met  the  worshipful  taste  of  my  tutor,  he  put  in  a  dyna 
mite  cartridge,  connected  a  long,  five-minute  fuse  there 
with,  and  carefully  thumbed  it  about  and  packed  it  in 
with  wet  clay. 

"  At  Gassy's  word,  I  was  then  hauled  up  from  the 
shaft  by  Jim.  I  added  my  strength  to  the  windlass, 
Gassy  climbed  into  the  bucket,  lighted  the  fuse,  and 
was  then  swiftly  wound  to  the  surface  by  Jim  and  my 
self.  We  then  dragged  the  windlass  aside,  covered 
the  mouth  of  the  shaft,  and  quickly  scampered  to  a 
distance,  to  be  out  of  harm's  reach. 

"  At  the  end  of  five  minutes  from  the  time  that 
Gassy  lighted  the  fuse,  and  perhaps  three  minutes  after 
we  had  cleared  away,  the  shot  exploded  with  a  deafen 
ing  report.  Tons  of  rock  were  shot  up  from  the  mouth 
of  the  shaft,  full  fifty  feet  in  the  air.  It  was  all  very 
impressive,  and  gave  me  a  lesson  in  the  tremendous 
power  of  dynamite.  I  was  much  pleased,  and  felt  as 
if  I  were  learning. 

"  Following  the   explosion  Gassy  and   I   again   re- 


GASSY  THOMPSON,  VILLAIN  31 

paired  to  the  bottom  of  the  shaft.  After  clearing 
away  the  debris  and  sending  it  up  and  out  by  the 
bucket,  we  resumed  the  sledge  and  drill.  We  com 
pleted  another  hole  and  were  ready  for  a  second  shot. 
This  was  about  noon. 

"  It  was  at  this  point  that  the  miscreant,  Gassy,  be 
gan  to  put  into  action  a  plot  he  had  formed  against 
me,  and  to  carry  out  which  the  murderer,  Jim,  lent 
ready  aid.  You  must  remember  that  I  had  perfect 
confidence  in  these  two  villains. 

"  *  I  never  seed  no  tenderfoot  go  along  like  you  do 
at  this  business,'  said  Gassy  Thompson  to  me. 

"  This  was  flattery.  The  miscreant  was  fattening 
me  for  the  sacrifice. 

"  '  Looks  like  you  was  born  to  be  a  miner,'  he  went 
on.  '  Now,  I'm  goin'  to  let  you  fire  the  next  shot. 
Usual,  I  wouldn't  feel  jestified  in  allowin'  a  tenderfoot 
to  fire  a  shot  for  plumb  three  months.  But  you  has  a 
genius  for  minin' ;  it  comes  as  easy  to  you  as  robbin'  a 
bird's  nest.  I'd  be  doin'  wrong  to  hold  you  back.' 

"  Of  course,  I  naturally  felt  pleased.  To  be  allowed 
to  fire  a  dynamite  shot  on  my  first  day  in  the  shaft  I 
felt  and  knew  to  be  an  honour.  I  determined  to  write 
home  to  my  friends  of  this  triumph. 

"  Gassy  said  he'd  put  in  the  shot,  and  he  selected 
one  of  giant  size.  I  saw  the  herculean  explosive  placed 
in  the  hole ;  then  he  attached  the  fuse  and  thumbed 
the  clay  about  it  as  before.  He  gave  me  a  few  last 
words. 

"'After  I  gets  up,'  he  said,  'an'  me  an' Jim's  all 
ready,  you  climb  into  the  bucket  an'  light  the  fuse. 
Then  raise  the  long  yell  to  me  an'  Jim,  an'  we'll  yank 
ye  out.  But  be  shore  an*  light  the  fuse.  There's 


32  SANDBURRS 

nothin'  more  discouragin'  than  for  to  wait  half  an* 
hour  outside  an*  no  cartridge  goin'  off.  Especial  when  it 
goes  off  after  you  comes  back  to  see  what's  the  matter 
with  her.  So  be  shore  an'  light  the  fuse,  an'  then  Jim 
an'  me'll  run  you  up  the  second  follerin'.  This  oughter 
be  a  great  day  for  you,  young  man  !  firin'  a  shot  this 
away,  the  first  six  hours  you're  a  miner  ! ' 

"  Jim  and  Gassy  were  at  the  windlass  and  yelled: 

"  '  All  ready  below  ? ' 

"  I  was  in  the  bucket  and  at  the  word  scratched  a 
match  and  lit  the  fuse.  It  sputtered  with  alarming 
ardour,  and  threw  off  a  shower  of  sparks. 

"  '  Hoist  away  !  '  I  called. 

"  The  villains  ran  me  up  about  twenty-five  feet,  and 
came  to  a  dead  halt.  At  this  they  seemed  to  get  into 
an  altercation.  They  both  abandoned  the  windlass, 
and  I  could  hear  them  cursing,  threatening,  and  shoot 
ing  ;  presumably  at  each  other. 

"  *  I'll  blow  your  heart  out ! '  I  heard  Gassy  say. 

"  My  alarm  was  without  a  limit.  I'd  seen  one  dyna 
mite  cartridge  go  off.  Here  I  was,  swinging  some 
twenty-five  feet  over  a  still  heavier  charge,  and  about 
to  be  blown  into  eternity  !  Meanwhile  the  caitiffs,  on 
whom  my  life  depended,  were  sacrificing  me  to  settle 
some  accursed  feud  of  their  own. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  of  my  agony.  The  fuse  was 
spitting  fire  like  forty  fiends ;  the  narrow  shaft  was 
choked  with  smoke.  I  swung  helpless,  awaiting  death, 
while  the  two  monsters,  Gassy  and  Jim,  were  trying  to 
murder  each  other  above.  Either  from  the  smoke  or 
the  excitement,  I  fainted. 

"  When  I  came  to  myself  I  was  outside  the  shaft, 
safe  and  sound,  while  Gassy  and  his  disreputable 


GASSY  THOMPSON,  VILLAIN  35 

assistant  were  laughing  at  their  joke.  There  had  been 
no  shot  placed  in  the  drill-hole;  the  heartless  Gassy 
had  palmed  it  and  carried  it  with  him  to  the  surface. 

"At  my  very  natural  inquiry,  made  in  a  weak  voice 
— for  I  was  still  sick  and  broken — as  to  what  it  all 
meant,  they  said  it  was  merely  a  Colorado  jest,  and 
intended  for  the  initiation  of  a  tenderfoot. 

"  '  It  gives  'em  nerve  ! '  said  Gassy  ;  *  it  puts  heart 
into  'em  an'  does  'em  good ! ' 

"  As  soon  as  I  could  walk  I  severed  my  relations 
with  Gassy  Thompson  and  his  outlaw  adherent,  Jim. 
The  next  morning  my  hair  had  turned  the  milky  sort 
you  see.  The  Creede  people  with  whom  I  discussed 
the  crime,  laughed  and  said  the  drinks  were  on  me. 
That  was  all  the  sympathy,  all  the  redress,  I  got. 

"  After  that  I  came  East  without  delay.  When  I 
leave  the  city  of  New  York  again  it  will  not  be  for 
Creede.  Nor  will  my  next  mining  connection  be 
formed  with  such  abandoned  barbarians  as  Gassy 
Thompson  and  Jim." 
3 


ONE  MOUNTAIN  LION 

"  PARD  !  would  you  like  to  shoot  at  that  lion  ?  " 

Bob  usually  gave  me  no  title  at  all.  But  when  in 
any  stress  of  our  companionship  he  was  driven  to  it,  I 
was  hailed  as  "  pard  !  "  Once  or  twice  on  some  lighter 
occasion  he  had  addressed  me  by  the  Spanish 
"Amiga."  In  business  hours,  however,  my  rank  was 
"pard!" 

****** 

Sundown  in  the  hills.  The  scene  was  a  southeast 
spur  of  the  Rockies  ;  call  the  region  the  Upper  Red 
River  or  the  Vermejo,  whichever  you  will  for  a  name. 
Forty  miles  due  west  from  the  Spanish  Peaks  would 
stand  one  on  the  very  spot. 

I  had  been  out  all  day,  ransacking  the  canyons, 
taking  a  Winter's  look  at  the  cattle  to  note  how  they 
were  meeting  the  rigours  of  a  season  not  yet  half  over. 
I  had  witnessed  nothing  alarming ;  my  horned  folk  of 
the  hills  still  made  a  smooth  display  as  to  ribs,  and 
wore  the  air  of  cattle  who  had  prudently  stored  up 
tallow  enough  the  autumn  before  to  carry  them  into 
the  April  grass. 

"  Many  a  day  have  I  dwelt  in  a  wet  saddle,  only  to 
crawl  into  a  wetter  blanket  at  night ;  and  all  for  cows  !  " 

It   was  Bob  Ellis  who  fathered  this  rather  irrelevant 

observation.     I   had  cut  his  trail  an  hour  before,  and 

we   were   making  company    for    each  other    back  to 

camp.     I  put  forth  no  retort.     Bob  and  I  abode  in  the 

34 


ONE  MOUNTAIN  LION  35 

same  small  log  hut,  and  I  saw  much  of  him,  and  didn't 
feel  obliged  to  reply  to  those  random  utterances  which 
fluttered  from  him  like  birds  from  a  bush. 

It  had  been  snowing  for  three  days.  This  afternoon, 
however,  had  shaken  off  the  storm.  It  is  worth  while 
to  see  the  snow  come  down  in  the  hills ;  flakes  soft 
and  clinging  and  silently  cold  ;  big  as  a  baby's  hand. 
Out  in  the  flat  valleys  free  of  the  trees  the  snow  was 
deep  enough  to  jade  and  distress  our  ponies.  There 
fore  Bob  arid  I  were  creeping  home  among  the  thick 
sown  pines  which  bristled  on  the  Divide  like  spines  on 
a  pig's  back.  There  was  very  little  snow  under  the 
trees.  What  would  have  made  an  easy  depth  of  two 
feet  had  it  been  evenly  spread  on  the  ground  over 
which  our  broncos  picked  their  tired  way,  was  above 
our  heads  in  the  pines.  That  was  the  reason  why  the 
trees  were  so  still  and  silent.  Your  pine  is  a  most 
garrulous  vegetable  in  a  sighing  fashion,  and  its  com 
plaining  notes  sing  for  ever  in  your  ears ;  sometimes 
like  a  roar,  sometimes  like  a  wail.  But  the  three-days' 
snow  in  their  green  mouths  gagged  them  ;  and  never 
a  tree  of  them  all  drew  so  much  as  a  breath  as  we 
pushed  on  through  their  ranks. 

"Like  the  Winchester  you're  packin?"  asked 
Bob. 

I  confessed  a  weakness  for  the  gun. 

"  Had  one  of  them  magazine  guns  once  myse'f," 
Bob  remarked.  "  Model  of  '78.  Never  liked  it, 
though ;  always  shootin'  over.  As  you  pump  the 
loads  outen  'em  and  empty  the  magazine,  the  weight 
shifts  till  toward  the  last  the  muzzle's  as  light  as  a 
feather.  Thar  you  be !  shootin'  over  and  still  over, 
every  pull." 


36  SANDBURRS 

Having  no  interest  in  magazine  guns  beyond  the  act 
of  firing  them,  I  paid  no  heed  to  Bob's  assault  on  their 
merits. 

"  Now  a  single-shot  gun,"  continued  Bob,  as  he  rode 
an  oak  shrub  underfoot  to  come  abreast  of  me,  "  is  the 
vveepon  for  me.  Never  mind  about  thar  bein'  jest  one 
shot  in  her !  Show  me  somethin'  to  shoot,  an'  I'll 
sling  the  cartridges  into  her  frequent  enough  for  the 
most  impatient  gent  on  earth.  This  rifle  I'm  packin' 
is  all  right — all  except  the  hind  sight.  That's  too 
coarse  ;  you  could  drag  a  dog  through  it." 

Bob's  dissertation  on  rifles  was  entertaining  enough. 
My  mood  was  indifferent,  and  his  wisdom  ran  through 
my  wits  like  water  through  a  funnel,  keeping  them 
employed  without  filling  them  up.  Bob  had  just 
begun  again — all  about  a  day  far  away  when  muzzle 
loaders  were  many  in  the  hills — when  my  pony  made 
sudden  shy  at  something  in  the  bushes.  The  muzzle 
of  my  gun  instantly  pointed  to  it,  as  if  by  an  instinct 
of  its  own.  Even  as  it  did  I  became  aware  of  the 
harmless  cause  of  my  pony's  devout  breathings — one 
of  those  million  tragedies  of  nature  which  makes  the 
wilderness  a  daily  slaughter  pen.  It  was  the  carcass  of 
a  blacktail  deer.  Its  torn  throat  and  shoulders,  as  well 
as  the  tracks  of  the  giant  cat  in  the  snow,  told  how  it 
died.  The  panther  had  leaped  from  the  big  bough  of 
that  yellow  pine. 

"  Mountain  lion  !  "  observed  Bob,  sagely,  as  he  con 
templated  the  torn  deer.  "  The  deer  come  sa'nterin' 
down  the  slope  yere,  an*  the  lion  jest  naturally  jumps 
his  game  from  that  tree.  This  deer  was  a  bigger  fool 
than  most.  You  wouldn't  ketch  many  of  'em  as  could 
come  walkin'  down  the  wind  where  the  brush  and 


ONE  MOUNTAIN  LION  37 

bushes  is  rank,  and  gives  the  cats  a  chance  to  lay  for 
'em  and  bushwhack  'em  !  " 

It  was  becoming  shadowy  in  among  the  pines  by  this 
time,  and,  having  enough  of  Bob's  defence  of  the  dead 
buck  and  apology  for  its  errors,  I  pushed  on  through 
the  bushes  for  the  camp.  As  we  crossed  a  burnt  strip 
where  the  fires  had  made  a  meal  of  the  trees,  the  sun 
was  reluctantly  blinking  his  last  before  going  to  bed  in 
the  Sangre  de  Christo  Range,  which  rolled  upward 
like  some  tremendous  billow  in  an  ocean  of  milk  full 
five  scores  of  miles  to  the  west. 

Bob  and  I  were  smoking  our  pipes  in  our  log  home 
that  evening.  Perhaps  it  was  nine  o'clock.  A  pitch- 
pine  fire — billets  set  up  endwise  in  the  fireplace — 
roared  in  one  corner.  Our  chimney  was  a  vast  success. 
Out  back  of  our  log  habitat  the  surveyors  had  peeled 
the  base  of  a  pine  and  made  a  red-paint  statement  to 
the  effect  that  even  in  the  bottom  of  our  little  valley 
we  were  over  8,000  feet  above  the  sea.  This  rather  de 
rogated  from  the  pride  of  our  chimney's  performance ; 
because,  as  Bob  with  justice  urged,  "  a  chimney  not  to 
*  draw '  at  an  altitude  of  8,000  feet  would  have  to  be  flat 
on  the  ground." 

I  was  sprawled  on  a  blanket,  softly  taking  in  the 
smoke  of  a  meerschaum.  My  eyes,  fascinated  by  the 
glaring,  pitch-pine  blaze,  were  boring  away  at  the  fire 
as  if  it  guarded  a  treasure.  But  neither  the  tobacco 
smoke  nor  the  flames  were  in  my  thoughts  ;  the  latter 
were  idly  going  back  to  the  torn  deer. 

As  if  in  deference  to  a  fashion  of  telepathy,  Bob 
would  have  been  thinking  of  the  deer,  also.  It's 
possible,  however,  he  had  the  cat  in  his  meditations. 


38  SANDBURRS 

Suddenly  he  broke  into  my  quiet  with  the  remark  which 
opens  this  yarn.  Then  he  proceeded. 

"  Because,"  Bob  continued,  as  I  turned  an  eye  on 
him  through  my  tobacco  smoke,  "  you  might  get  it 
easy.  He's  shorely  due  to  go  back  to-night  an'  eat  up 
some  of  that  black-tail,  unless  he's  got  an  engagement. 
It's  even  money  he's  right  thar  now." 

I  stepped  to  the  door  and  looked  out.  The  roundest 
of  moons  in  the  clearest  of  skies  shone  down.  Then 
there  was  the  snow ;  altogether,  one  might  have  read 
agate  print  by  the  light.  I  picked  up  my  rifle  and  sent 
my  eye  through  the  sights. 

"  But  how  about  it  when  we  push  in  among  the 
pines  ;  it'll  be  darker  in  there  ?  " 

"Thar'll  be  plenty  of  light,"  declared  Bob.  "You 
don't  have  to  make  a  tack-head  shot.  It  ain't  goin'  to 
be  like  splittin'  a  bullet  on  a  bowie.  This  mountain 
lion  will  be  as  big  as  you  or  me.  Thar'll  be  light 
enough  to  hit  a  mark  the  size  of  him." 

Our  ponies  were  heartily  scandalised  at  being  resad- 
dled  so  soon  ;  but  they  were  powerless  to  enforce  their 
views,  and  away  we  went,  Indian  file,  with  souls  bent 
to  slay  the  lion. 

"  Which  I  shorely  undertakes  the  view  that  we'll  get 
him,"  observed  Bob  as  we  rode  along. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  the  Eastern  proverb  which  says, 
'  The  man  who  sold  the  lion's  hide  while  yet  upon  the 
beast  was  killed  in  hunting  him  '  ?  "  I  asked  banteringly. 

"Who  says  so?"  demanded  Bob,  defiantly. 

"  It  is  an  Eastern  proverb." 

"  Well,  it  may  do  for  the  East,"  responded  Bob,  "  but 
you  can  gamble  it  ain't  had  no  run  west  of  the  Missis 
sippi.  Why !  I  wouldn't  be  afraid  to  bet  that  one  of 


ONE  MOUNTAIN  LION  39 

these  panthers  never  killed  a  human  in  the  world. 
They  do  it  in  stories,  but  never  in  the  hills.  Why, 
shore !  if  you  went  right  up  an'  got  one  by  his  two 
y'ears  an'  wrastled  him,  he'd  have  to  fight.  You  could 
get  a  row  out  of  a  house  cat,  an'  play  that  system.  But 
you  can  write  alongside  of  the  Eastern  proverb,  that 
'  Bob  Ellis  says  that  the  lion  them  parties  complain  of 
as  killin'  their  friend,  must  have  been  plumb  locoed,  an' 
it  oughtn't  to  count.'  " 

At  the  edge  of  the  trees  we  left  the  ponies  standing. 
They  pointed  their  ears  forward  as  if  wondering  what 
all  this  mysterious  night's  work  meant.  It  was  entire 
ly  beside  their  experience.  We  left  them  to  unnivel 
the  puzzle  and  passed  as  quietly  among  the  trees  as 
needles  into  cloth. 

Both  Bob  and  I  had  served  our  apprenticeship  at 
being  noiseless,  and  brought  the  noble  trade  of  silence 
to  a  science.  It  wasn't  distant  now  to  the  field  of  the 
deer's  death.  Soon  Bob  pointed  out  the  yellow  pine. 
Bob  was  a  better  woodsman  than  I.  Even  in  the  day 
light  I  would  have  owned  trouble  in  picking  out  the 
tree  at  that  distance  among  such  a  piney  throng. 

What  little  wind  we  had  was  breathing  in  our  faces. 
Bob  hadn't  made  the  black-tail's  blunder  of  giving  the 
lion  the  better  of  the  breeze.  Bob  took  the  lead  after 
he  pointed  out  the  yellow  pine.  Perhaps  it  was  150 
yards  away  when  he  identified  it.  We  didn't  cover 
five  yards  in  a  minute.  Bob  was  resolutely  deliberate. 
Still,  I  had  no  thought  of  complaint.  I  would  have 
managed  the  case  the  same  way  had  I  been  in  the  lead. 

Every  ten  feet  Bob  would  pause  and  listen.  There 
was  now  and  then  the  sound  of  a  clot  of  snow  falling 
in  the  tops  of  the  pines,  as  some  bough  surrendered  its 


40  SANDBURRS 

burden  to  the  influence  of  the  slight  breeze.  That  was 
all  my  ears  could  detect  of  voices  in  the  woods. 

We  were  within  forty  yards  of  the  yellow  pine,  when 
Bob,  after  lingering  a  moment,  turned  his  face  toward 
me  and  made  a  motion  of  caution.  I  bent  my  ear  to 
a  profound  effort.  At  last  I  heard  it ;  the  unctuous 
sound  of  feeding  jaws  ! 

The  oak  bushes  grew  thick  in  among  the  pine  trees. 
It  did  not  seem  possible  to  make  out  our  game  on  ac 
count  of  this  shrub-screen.  At  this  point,  instead  of 
going  any  nearer  the  yellow  pine,  Bob  bore  off  to  the 
left.  This  flank  movement  not  only  held  our  title  to 
the  wind,  but  brought  the  moon  behind  us.  After 
each  fresh  step  Bob  turned  for  a  further  survey  of 
that  region  at  the  base  of  the  yellow  pine,  where  our 
lion,  or  some  one  of  his  relatives,  was  busy  at  his  new 
repast. 

Then  the  climax  of  search  arrived.  To  give  myself 
due  credit,  I  saw  the  panther  as  soon  as  did  Bob.  A 
fallen  pine  tree  opened  a  lane  in  the  bushes.  Along 
this  aisle  I  could  dimly  make  out  the  body  of  the  beast. 
His  head  and  shoulders  were  protected  by  the  trunk  of 
the  yellow  pine,  from  the  limb  of  which  he  had  am 
buscaded  the  black-tail.  A  cat's  mouth  serves  vilely 
as  a  knife  ;  the  teeth  are  not  arranged  to  cut  well.  His 
inability  to  sever  a  morsel  left  nothing  for  our  lion  to 
do,  but  gnaw  at  the  carcass  much  as  a  dog  might  at  a 
bone.  This  managed  to  keep  his  head  out  of  harm's 
way  behind  the  tree. 

Nothing  better  was  likely  to  offer,  and  I  concluded 
to  try  what  a  bullet  would  bring,  on  that  part  of  the 
panther  we  could  see.  I  found  as  I  raised  my  Win 
chester  that  there  was  to  be  a  strong  element  of  faith 


ONE  MOUNTAIN  LION  41 

in  the  shot.  It  was  dim  and  shadowy  in  the  woods, 
conditions  which  appeared  to  increase  the  moment  you 
tried  to  point  a  gun.  The  aid  my  aim  received  from 
the  gun-sights  was  of  the  vaguest.  Indeed,  for  that 
one  occasion  they  might  as  well  have  been  left  off  the 
rifle.  But  as  I  was  as  familiar  with  the  weapon  as  with 
the  words  I  write,  and  could  tell  to  the  breadth  of  a 
hair  where  to  lay  it  against  my  face  to  make  it  point 
directly  at  an  object,  there  was  nothing  to  gain  by  any 
elaboration  of  aim.  As  if  to  speed  my  impulse  in 
the  matter,  a  far-off  crashing  occurred  in  the  bushes  to 
the  rear.  A  word  suffices  to  read  the  riddle  of  the  in- 
terruption.  Our  ponies,  tired  of  being  left  to  them 
selves,  were  coming  sapiently  forward  to  join  us. 

With  the  first  blundering  rush  of  the  ponies  I  un 
hooked  my  Winchester.  The  panther  had  no  chance 
to  take  stock  of  the  ponies'  careless  approach.  If 
they  had  started  five  minutes  earlier  he  might  have 
owed  them  something. 

With  the  crack  of  the  Winchester,  the  panther  gave 
such  a  scream  as,  added  to  the  jar  of  the  gun — I  was 
burning  120  grains  of  powder — served  to  make  my 
ears  sing.  There  were  fear,  amazement  and  pain  all 
braided  together  in  that  yell.  The  flash  of  the  dis 
charge  and  the  night  shadows  so  blinded  me  that  I  did 
not  make  a  second  shot.  I  pumped  in  the  cartridge 
with  the  instinct  of  precedent,  but  it  was  of  no  use. 
On  the  heels  of  it,  our  ponies,  as  if  taking  the  shot  to 
be  an  urgent  invitation  to  make  haste,  came  up  on  a 
canter,  tearing  through  the  bushes  in  a  way  to  lose  a 
stirrup  if  persisted  in. 

Bob  had  run  forward.  There  was  blood  on  the 
snow  to  a  praiseworthy  extent.  As  we  gazed  along 


42  SANDBURRS 

the  wounded  animal's  line  of  flight  there  was  more 
of  it. 

"  He's  too  hard  hit  to  go  far,"  said  Bob.  "  We'll 
find  him  in  the  next  canyon,  or  that  blood's  a  joke." 

Bob  walked  along,  looking  at  the  blood-stained  snow 
as  if  it  were  a  lesson.  Suddenly  he  halted,  where  the 
moonlight  fell  across  it  through  the  trees. 

"  You  uncoupled  him,"  he  said.  "  Broke  his  back 
plumb  in  two.  See  where  he  dragged  his  hind  legs !  " 

"  He  can't  run  far  on  those  terms,"  I  suggested. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Bob,  doubtfully.  "  A  moun 
tain  lion  don't  die  easy.  Mountain  lions  is  what  an 
insurance  sharp  would  call  a  good  resk.  But  I'll  tell 
you  how  to  carry  on  this  campaign:  I'll  take  the 
horses  and  scout  over  to  the  left  until  I  get  into  the 
canyon  yonder.  Then  I'll  bear  off  up  the  canyon.  If 
he  crosses  it — an'  goin'  on  two  legs  that  away,  I  don't 
look  for  it — I'll  signal  with  a  yell.  If  he  don't,  I'll 
circle  him  till  I  find  the  trail.  Meanwhile  you  go 
straight  ahead  on  his  track  afoot.  Take  it  slow  an' 
easy,  for  he's  likely  to  be  layin'  somewhere." 

The  trail  carried  me  a  quarter  of  a  mile.  As  nearly 
as  I  might  infer  from  the  story  the  panther's  passage 
had  written  in  the  snow,  his  speed  held  out.  This 
last  didn't  look  much  like  weakness.  Still,  the  course 
was  a  splash  of  blood  in  red  contradiction.  The  direc 
tion  he  took  was  slightly  uphill. 

The  trail  ended  sharp  at  the  edge  of  a  wide  canyon. 
There  was  a  shelf  of  scaly  rock  about  twelve  feet  down 
the  side.  This  had  been  protected  from  the  storm  by 
the  overhanging  brink  of  the  canyon,  and  there  was  no 
snow  on  the  shelf.  That  and  the  twelve  feet  of  canyon 
side  above  it  were  the  yellow  colour  of  the  earth. 


ONE  MOUNTAIN  LION  43 

Below  the  shelf  the  snow  again  was  deep,  as  the 
sides  took  an  easier  slope  toward  the  bottom  of  the 
canyon.  The  panther  had  evidently  scrambled  down 
to  the  shelf.  It  took  me  less  than  a  second  to  follow 
his  wounded  example.  Once  down  I  looked  over  the 
edge  at  the  snow  a  few  feet  below  to  catch  the  trail 
again.  The  unmarred  snow  voiced  no  report  of  the 
game  I  hunted.  I  stepped  to  the  left  a  few  paces,  still 
looking  over  for  signs  in  the  snow.  There  were  none. 
As  the  shelf  came  to  an  end  in  this  direction,  I  re 
turned  along  the  ledge,  still  keeping  a  hawk's  eye  on 
the  snow  below  for  the  trail.  I  heard  Bob  riding  in 
the  canyon. 

"  Have  you  struck  his  trail?  "  I  shouted. 

"  Thar's  been  nothin'  down  yere  !  "  shouted  Bob  in 
reply.  "  The  snow's  as  unbroken  as  the  cream-cap  on 
a  pan  of  milk.'' 

Where  was  my  panther?  I  had  begun  to  regard 
him  as  a  chattel.  As  my  eye  journeyed  along  the 
ledge  the  mystery  cleared  up.  There  lay  my  yellow 
friend  close  in  against  the  wall.  I  had  walked  within 
a  yard  *of  him,  looking  the  other  way  while  earnestly 
reading  the  snow. 

The  panther  was  sprawled  flat  like  a  rug,  staring  at 
me  with  green  eyes.  I  had  broken  his  back,  as  Bob 
said.  As  I  brought  the  Winchester  to  my  face,  his 
gaze  gave  way.  He  turned  his  head  as  if  to  hide  it 
between  his  shoulder  and  the  wall.  I  was  too  near  to 
talk  of  missing,  even  in  the  dim  light,  and  the  next 
instant  he  was  hiccoughing  with  a  bullet  in  his  brain. 
Six  and  one-half  feet  from  nose  to  tip  was  the  meas 
urement  ;  whereof  the  tail,  which  these  creatures  grow 
foolishly  long,  furnished  almost  one-half. 


MOLLIE  MATCHES 
(ANNALS  OF  THE  BEND) 

IT  was  clear  and  cold  and  dry — excellent  weather, 
indeed,  for  a  snowless  Christmas.  Everywhere  one 
witnessed  evidences  of  the  season.  One  met  more  gay 
clothes  than  usual,  with  less  of  anxiety  and  an  increase 
of  smiling  peace  in  the  faces.  Each  window  had  its 
wreath  of  glistening  green,  whereof  the  red  ribbon 
bow,  that  set  off  the  garland,  seemed  than  common 
a  deeper  and  more  ardent  red.  Or  was  the  elevation  in 
the  faces,  and  the  greenness  of  the  wreaths,  and  the 
vivid  sort  of  the  ribbon,  due  to  impressions,  impalpable 
yet  positive,  of  Christmas  everywhere  ? 

All  about  was  Christmas.  Even  our  Baxter  Street 
doggery  had  attempted  something  in  the  nature  of  a 
bowl  of  dark,  suspicious  drink,  to  which  the  barkeeper 
— he  was  a  careless  man  of  his  nomenclature,  this  bar 
keeper — gave  the  name  of  "  apple  toddy."  Apple 
toddy  it  might  have  been. 

When  Chucky  came  in,  an  uncertain  shuffle  which 
was  company  to  his  rather  solid  tread  showed  he  was 
not  alone.  I  looked  up.  Our  acquaintance,  Mollie 
Matches,  expert  pickpocket, — now  helpless  and  broken, 
all  his  one  time  jauntiness  of  successful  crime  gone, — 
was  with  him. 

"  It  was  lonesome  over  be  me  joint,"  vouchsafed 
Chucky,  "  wit*  me  Bundle  chased  over  to  do  her  reg'lar 
44 


MOLLIE  MATCHES  45 

anyooal  confession  to  d'  priest,  see !  an'  so  I  t'ought 
youse  wouldn't  mind  an'  I  bring  Mollie  along.  Me 
old  pal  is  still  a  bit  shaky  as  to  his  hooks,"  remarked 
Chucky,  as  he  surveyed  his  tremulous  companion,  "  an* 
a  sip  of  d'  booze  wouldn't  do  him  no  harm.  It  ain't 
age;  Mollie's  only  come  sixty  spaces;  it's  that  Hum- 
min'  Boid  about  which  I  tells  youse,  that's  knocked 
his  noive." 

Drinks  were  ordered ;  whiskey  strong  and  straight 
for  Matches.  No ;  I've  no  apology  for  buying  these 
folk  drink.  "  Drink,"  observed  Johnson  to  the  worthy 
Boswell,  "  drink,  for  one  thing,  makes  a  man  pleased 
with  himself,  which  is  no  small  matter."  Heaven 
knows !  my  shady  companions,  for  the  reason  an 
nounced  by  the  sagacious  doctor,  needed  something  of 
the  sort.  Besides,  I  never  molest  my  fellows  in  their 
drinking.  I've  slight  personal  use  for  breweries,  distil 
leries,  or  wine  presses ;  and  gin  mills  in  any  form  or  phase 
woo  me  not ;  yet  I  would  have  nothing  of  interference 
with  the  cups  of  other  men.  In  such  behalf,  I  feel  not 
unlike  that  fat,  well-living  bishop  of  Westminster  who 
refused  to  sign  a  memorial  to  Parliament  craving  strict 
laws  in  behalf  of  total  abstinence.  "  No,"  said  that 
sound  priest,  stoutly,  "  I  will  sign  no  such  petition  to 
Parliament.  I  want  no  such  law.  I  would  rather  see 
Englishmen  free  than  sober." 

It  took  five  deep  draughts  of  liquor,  ardently  raw,  to 
put  Matches  in  half  control  of  his  hands.  What  with 
the  chill  of  the  day,  and  what  with  the  torn  condition 
of  his  nerves,  they  shook  like  the  oft-named  aspen. 

"  Them  don't  remind  a  guy,"  said  Matches,  as  he 
held  up  his  quivering  fingers,  "  of  a  day,  twenty-five 
years  ago,  when  I  was  d'  pick  of  d'  swell  mob,  an*  d' 


46  SANDBURRS 

steadiest  grafter  that  ever  ringed  a  watch  or  weeded  a 
leather!  It  would  be  safe  for  d'  Chief  to  take  me  mug 
out  of  d'  gallery  now,  an'  rub  d'  name  of  Mollie 
Matches  off  d'  books.  Me  day  is  done,  an*  I'll  graft 
no  more." 

There  was  plaintiveness  in  the  man's  tones  as  if  he 
were  mourning  some  virtue,  departed  with  his  age  and 
weakness.  Clearly  Matches,  off  his  guard  and  normal, 
found  no  peculiar  fault  with  his  past. 

"  How  came  you  to  be  a  thief?"  I  asked  Matches 
bluntly.  I  had  counted  the  sixth  drink  down  his 
throat,  which  meant  that  he  wouldn't  be  sensitive. 

"  It's  too  far  off  to  say,"  retorted  Matches.  "  I 
can't  t'row  back  to  d'  time  when  I  wasn't  a  crook. 
Do  youse  want  to  know  d'  foist  trick  I  loined  ?  Well, 
it  wasn't  t'ree  blocks  from  here,  over  be  d'  Bowery.  I 
couldn't  be  more'n  five.  There  was  a  fakir,  sellin* 
soap.  There  was  spec'ments  of  d'  long  green  all  over 
his  stand,  wit'  cakes  of  soap  on  'em,  to  draw  d'  suck 
ers.  Standin'  be  me  side  was  a  kid  ;  Danny  d'  Face 
dey  called  him.  He  was  bigger  than  me,  an'  so  I  falls 
to  his  tips,  see  !  " 

"'When  you  see  him  toiii  round/  said  Danny  d' 
Face,  '  swipe  a  bill,  an'  chase  yourself  up  d'  alley  wit' 
it.' 

"  Danny  goes  behint,  an'  does  a  sneak  on  d'  fakir's 
leg  wit'  a  pin.  Of  course,  he  toins  an'  cuts  loose  a 
bluff  at  Danny,  who's  ducked  out  of  reach.  As  he 
toins,  up  goes  me  small  mit,  an'  d'  nex'  secont  I'm 
sprintin'  up  d'  alley  wit'  d'  swag. 

"  Nit ;  d'  mug  wit'  d'  soap  don't  chase.  He  never 
even  makes  a  holler  ;  I  don't  t'ink  he  caught  on.  But 
Danny  cuts  in  after  me,  an'  d'  minute  he  sees  we  ain't 


MOLLIE  MATCHES  47 

bein'  followed,  or  piped,  he  gives  me  d'  foot,  t'rows  me 
in  a  heap,  an'  grabs  off  d'  bill.  I  don't  get  a  smell  of 
it.  An'  d'  toad  skin's  a  fiver  at  that ! 

"  D'  foist  real  graft  I  recalls,"  continued  Matches, 
as  he  took  a  meditative  sip  of  the  grog,  "  I'm  goin' 
along  wit'  an  old  fat  skirt,  called  Mother  Worden,  to 
Barnum's  Museum  down  be  Ann  Street  an'  Broadway. 
Mebbe  I'm  seven  or  eight  then.  Mother  Worden  used 
to  make  up  for  d'  respectable,  see !  an'  our  togs  was 
out  of  sight.  There  was  no  flies  on  us  when  me  an' 
Mother  Worden  went  fort'  to  graft.  What  was  d' 
racket  ?  Pickin'  women's  pockets.  Mother  Worden 
would  go  to  d'  museum,  or  wherever  there  was  a  crush, 
an'  lead  me  about  be  me  mit.  She'd  steer  me  up  to 
some  loidy,  an'  let  on  she's  lookin'  at  whatever  d'  other 
party  has  her  lamps  on.  Meanwhile,  I'm  shoved  in 
between  d'  brace  of  'em,  an'  that's  me  cue  to  dip  in 
wit*  me  free  hook  an'  toin  out  d'  loidy's  pocket,  see ! 
An'  say  !  it  was  a  peach  of  a  play  ;  an'  a  winner.  We 
used  to  take  in  funerals,  an'  theaytres,  an'  wherever 
there  was  a  gang.  Me  an'  Mother  Worden  was  d' 
whole  t'ing;  there  was  nobody's  bit  to  split  out;  just 
us.  We  was  d'  complete  woiks. 

"  Now  an'  then  there  was  a  squeal.  Once  in  a  while 
I'd  bungle  me  stunt,  an'  d'  loidy  I  was  friskin'  would 
tumble  an'  raise  d'  yell.  But  Mother  Worden  always 
'pologised,  an'  acted  like  she's  shocked,  an'  cuffed  me  an' 
t'umped  me,  see  !  an'  so  she  'd  woik  us  free.  I  stood 
for  d'  t'umpin',  an'  never  knocked.  Mother  Worden 
always  told  me  that  if  we  was  lagged,  d'  p'lice  guys 
would  croak  me.  An'  as  d'  wallopin's  she  gives  me 
was  d'  real  t'ing, — bein'  she  was  hot  under  d'  collar  for 
me  fallin'  down  wit'  me  graft, — d'  folks  used  to  believe 


48  SANDBURRS 

her,  an'  look  on  me  fin  in  their  pocket,  that  way,  as  d* 
caper  of  a  kid.  Oh,  d'  old  woman  Worden  was  dead 
flossy  in  her  day,  an'  stood  d'  acid  all  right,  all  right, 
every  time. 

"  But  like  it  always  toins  out,  she  finds  her  finish. 
One  day  she  makes  a  side-play  on  her  own  account, 
somethin'  in  d'  shopliftin'  line,  I  t'ink ;  an'  she's 
pinched,  an'  takes  six  mont's  on  d'  Island.  I  never 
sees  her  ag'in ;  at  which  I  don't  break  no  record  for 
weeps.  She's  a  boid,  was  Mother  Worden  ;  an'  dead 
tough  at  that.  She  don't  give  me  none  d'  best  of  it 
when  I'm  wit'  her,  an'  I'm  glad,  in  a  kid  fashion,  when 
she  gets  put  away. 

"  That's  d'  start  I  gets.  Some  other  time  I'll  unfold 
to  youse  how  I  takes  me  name  of  Mollie  Matches. 
Youse  can  hock  your  socks !  I've  seen  d'  hot  end  of 
many  an  alley  !  I  never  chases  be  Trinity  buryin' 
ground,  but  I  t'inks  of  a  day  when  I  pitched  coppers 
on  one  of  d'  tombstones,  heads  or  tails,  for  a  saw-buck, 
wit'  a  party  grown,  before  I  was  old  enough  an'  fly 
enough  to  count  d'  dough  we  was  tossin'  for.  But  we'll 
pass  all  that  up  to-night.  It's  gettin'  late  an'  I'll  just 
put  me  frame  outside  another  hooker  an'  then  I'll  hunt 
me  bunk.  I  can't  set  up,  an'  booze  an'  gab  like  I  onct 
could ;  I  ain't  neither  d'  owl  nor  d'  tank  I  was." 


THE  ST.  CYRS 
CHAPTER  I 

FRANCOIS  ST.  CYR  is  a  Frenchman.  He  is  absent 
two  years  from  La  Belle  France.  He  and  his  little 
wife,  Bebe,  live  not  far  from  Washington  Square. 
They  love  each  other  like  birds.  Yet  Frangois  St.  Cyr 
is  gay,  and  little  Bebe  is  jealous.  Once  a  year  the 
Ball  of  France  is  held  at  the  Garden.  Bebe  turns  up  a 
nose  and  will  not  so  belittle  herself.  So  Francois  St. 
Cyr  attends  the  Ball  of  France  alone.  However,  he 
does  not  repine.  Francois  St.  Cyr  is  permitted  to  be 
more  de  gage  ;  the  ladies  more  abandon.  At  least  that 
is  the  way  Frangois  St.  Cyr  explains  it. 

It  is  the  night  of  the  Ball  of  France.  Frangois 
St.  Cyr  is  there.  The  Garden  lights  shine  on  fair 
women  and  brave  men.  It  is  a  masque.  The 
costumes  are  fancy,  some  of  them  feverishly  so. 
A  railroad  person  present  says  there  isn't  enough 
costume  on  some  of  the  participants  to  flag  a  hand-car. 
No  one  has  any  purpose,  however,  to  flag  a  hand-car ; 
the  deficiency  passes  unnoticed.  Had  the  railroader 
spoken  of  flagging  a  beer  waggon — mon  Dieu  !  that 
would  have  been  another  thing! 

A  prize,  a  casket  of  jewels,  is  to  be  given  to  the  best 

dressed  lady.     A  bacchante  in  white   satin    trimmed 

with  swans'  down  and  diamonds  the  size  and  lustre  of 

salt-cellars  is   appointed   the  beneficiary   by  popular 

4  49 


50  SANDBURRS 

acclaim.  Frangois  St.  Cyr,  as  one  of  the  directors  of 
the  ball,  presents  the  jewels  in  a  fiery  speech.  The 
music  crashes,  the  mad  whirl  proceeds.  A  supple 
young  woman,  whose  trousseau  would  have  looked 
lonely  in  a  collar-box,  kicks  off  the  hat  of  Frangois 
St.  Cyr.  Sapriste  !  how  she  charms  him  !  He  drinks 
wine  from  her  little  shoe  ! 

CHAPTER  II 

THE  morning  papers  told  of  the  beauty  in  swans' 
down ;  the  casket  of  jewels,  and  the  presentation 
rhetoric  of  Francois  St.  Cyr,  flowing  like  a  river  of 
oral  fire.  Bebe  read  it  with  the  first  light  of  dawn. 
Peste !  Later,  when  Frangois  St.  Cyr  came  home, 
Bebe  hurled  the  clock  at  him  from  an  upper  window. 
Bebe  followed  it  with  other  implements  of  light  house 
keeping.  Francois  St.  Cyr  fled  wildly.  Then  he 
wept  and  drank  beer  and  talked  of  his  honour. 

CHAPTER  III 

THE  supple  person  who  kicked  the  hat  of  Frangois 
St.  Cyr  was  a  chorus  girl.  The  troop  in  whose  out 
rages  she  assisted  was  billed  to  infuriate  Newark  that 
evening.  Frangois  St.  Cyr  would  seek  surcease  in 
Newark.  He  would  bind  a  new  love  on  the  heart 
bruised  and  broken  by  the  jealous  Bebe.  Mon  Dieu  ! 
yes ! 

The  curtain  went  up.  Frangois  St.  Cyr  inhabited  a 
box.  He  was  very  still ;  no  mouse  was  more  so.  No 
one  noticed  Frangois  St.  Cyr.  At  last  the  chorus  folk 
appeared. 


THE  ST.  CYRS  51 

"  Brava !  mam'selle,  brava !  "  shouted  Frangois  St. 
Cyr,  springing  to  his  feet,  and  performing  with  his 
hands  as  with  cymbals. 

What  merited  this  outburst  ?  The  chorus  folk 
had  done  nothing ;  hadn't  slain  a  note,  nor  murdered 
a  melody.  The  audience  stared  at  the  shouting  Fran- 
gois  St.  Cyr.  What  ailed  the  man?  At  last  the 
audience  admonished  Frangois  St.  Cyr. 

"  Sit  down  !     Shut  up  !  " 

Those  were  the  directions  the  public  gave  Francois 
St.  Cyr. 

"  I  weel  not  sit  down !  I  weel  not  close  up ! " 
shouted  Frangois  St.  Cyr,  bending  over  the  box-rail 
and  gesticulating  like  a  monkey  whose  reason  was 
suffering  a  strain.  Then  again  to  the  chorus  girl : 

"  Brava !  mam'selle,  brava  !  " 

The  other  chorus  girls  looked  disdainfully  at  the 
chorus  girl  whom  Fran9ois  St.  Cyr  honoured,  so  as  to 
identify  her  to  the  contempt  of  the  public. 


CHAPTER  IV 

FRANCOIS  ST.  CYR  suddenly  discharged  a  bouquet 
at  the  stage.  It  was  the  size  of  a  butter  tub.  It 
mowed  a  swath  through  the  chorus  like  a  chain  shot. 

"  Put  him  out !  "  commanded  the  public. 

"  Poot  heem  out !  "  repeated  Frangois  St.  Cyr  with 
a  shriek  of  sneering  contempt.  "  Canaille  !  I  def-fy 
you  !  I  am  a  Frenchman  ;  I  do  not  fee-ar  to  die  !  " 

Wafted  to  his  duty  on  the  breath  of  general  opinion, 
•zgend'arme  of  Newark  acquired  Frangois  St.  Cyr,  and 
bore  him  vociferating  from  the  scene  of  his  triumph. 


52  SANDBURRS 

As  he  was  carried  through  the  foyer,  he  raised  his 
voice  heroically  : 

"  Vive  le  Boulanger  !  " 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  next  public  appearance  of  Fran$ois  St.  Cyrwas 
in  the  Newark  Police  Court.  He  was  pale  and  limp, 
and  had  thoughts  of  suicide.  He  was  still  clothed  in 
his  dress  suit,  which  clung  to  him  as  if  it,  too,  felt 
"des-pond" 

Frangois  St.  Cyr  was  fined  $20. 

Bebe,  the  jealous,  the  faithful  little  Bebe,  was  there 
to  pay  the  money.  Mon  Dieu  !  how  he  loved  her ! 
He  would  be  her  bird  and  sing  to  her  all  her  life  ! 
Never  would  he  leave  his  Bebe  more  !  As  for  the 
false  one  of  the  chorus  :  Francois  St.  Cyr  "  des-spised  " 
her. 

Also  Bebe  had  brought  the  week-day  suit  of  Francois 
St.  Cyr.  Could  an  angel  have  had  more  forethought? 
Frangois  St.  Cyr  changed  his  clothes  in  a  jury  room, 
and  Bebe  and  he  came  home  cooing  like  turtle  doves. 

CHAPTER  VI 

BY  virtue  of  the  every-day  suit,  the  St.  Cyrs  were 
home  by  4  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  Otherwise,  under 
the  rules,  being  habited  in  a  dress  suit,  Frangois  St. 
Cyr  could  not  have  returned  until  6, 

And  they  were  happy ! 


McBRIDE'S  DANDY 

ALBERT  EDWARD  MURPHY  is  a  high  officer  in  one  of 
the  departments  of  the  city.  He  holds  his  position 
with  credit  to  the  administration,  and  to  his  own  cele 
bration  and  renown.  He  has  a  wife  and  a  family  of 
children  ;  and  sets  up  his  Lares  and  Penates  in  a  home 
of  his  own  in  Greenwich  Village. 

Among  other  possessions  of  a  household  sort,  Albert 
Edward  Murphy,  until  lately,  numbered  one  pug  dog. 
It  was  a  dog  of  vast  spirit  and  but  little  wit.  Yet  the 
children  loved  it,  and  its  puggish  imbecility  only 
seemed  to  draw  it  closer  to  their  baby  hearts. 

The  pug's  main  delusion  went  to  the  effect  that  he 
could  fight.  Good  judges  say  that  there  wasn't  a  dog 
on  earth  the  pug  could  whip.  But  he  didn't  know  this 
and  held  other  views.  As  a  result,  he  assailed  every 
dog  he  met,  and  got  thrashed.  The  pug  had  taken  a 
whirl  at  all  the  canines  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  been 
wickedly  trounced  in  every  instance.  This  only  made 
him  dearer,  and  the  children  loved  him  for  the  enemies 
he  made. 


The  pug's  name  was  John. 

One  day,  John,  the  pug,  fell  heir  to  a  frightful  beat 
ing  at  the  paws  and  jaws  of  the  dog  next  door.     All 

53 


54  SANDBURRS 

that  saved  the  life  of  John,  the  pug,  on  this  awful  occa 
sion,  was  the  lucky  fact  that  he  could  get  between  the 
pickets  of  the  line  fence,  and  the  neighbour's  dog  could 
not.  The  neighbour's  dog  was  many  times  the  size  and 
weight  of  John,  the  pug;  but,  as  has  been  suggested, 
what  John  didn't  know  about  other  dogs  would  fill  a 
book ;  and  he  had  gone  upon  the  neighbour's  premises, 
and  pulled  off  a  fight. 

Now  these  divers  sporting  events  in  which  John,  the 
pug,  took  disastrous  part  worried  Albert  Edward  Mur 
phy.  They  worried  him  because  the  children  took 
them  to  heart,  and  wept  over  the  wounds  of  John,  the 
pug,  as  they  bound  them  with  tar  and  other  medica 
ments.  At  last  Albert  Edward  Murphy  resolved  upon 
a  campaign  in  favour  of  John,  the  pug.  His  future 
should  have  a  protector;  his  past  should  be  avenged. 


There  was  a  forty-pound  bulldog  resident  of  Phila 
delphia.  He  whipped  every  dog  to  whom  he  was  in 
troduced.  His  name  was  Alexander  McBride.  He 
was  referred  to  as  "  McBride's  Dandy  "  in  his  set,  when 
ever  his  identification  became  a  conversational  neces 
sity.  Of  the  many  dogs  he  had  met  and  conquered, 
Alexander  McBride  had  killed  twenty-three. 

Albert  Edward  Murphy  resolved  to  import  Alexander 
McBride.  He  knew  the  latter's  owner.  A  letter  ad 
justed  the  details.  The  proprietor  of  Alexander  Mc 
Bride  was  willing  his  pet  should  come  to  the  metrop 
olis  on  a  visit.  Alexander  McBride  had  fought  Phila 
delphia  to  a  standstill,  and  his  owner's  idea  was  that, 
if  Alexander  McBride  were  to  go  on  a  visit  and  remain 
away  for  a  few  months,  Philadelphia  would  forget  him, 


McBRIDE'S  DANDY  55 

and  on  his  return  he  might  ring  Alexander  in  on  the 
town  as  a  stranger,  and  kill  another  dog  with  him. 
•*  -x-  *  •&  #  # 

Alexander  McBride  got  off  the  cars  in  a  chicken 
crate.  The  expressmen  were  afraid  of  him.  Albert 
Edward  Murphy  was  notified.  He  hired  a  coloured  per 
son,  who  looked  on  life  as  a  failure,  to  convey  Alexander 
McBride  to  his  new  home.  They  tied  him  to  a  bureau 
when  they  got  him  there. 

Alexander  McBride  was  a  gruesome-looking  dog, 
with  a  wide,  vacant  head,  when  his  mouth  was  open, 
like  unto  an  empty  coal  scuttle.  Albert  Edward  Mur 
phy  looked  at  Alexander  McBride,  and  after  saying 
that  he  "would  do,"  went  to  dinner.  During  the 
prandial  meal  he  explained  to  his  family  the  properties 
and  attributes  of  Alexander  McBride  ;  and  then  he  and 
the  children  went  over  the  long  list  of  neighbour  dogs 
who  had  oppressed  John,  the  pug,  and  settled  which 
dog  Alexander  McBride  should  chew  up  first.  Alex 
ander  McBride  should  begin  on  the  morrow  to  rend 
and  destroy  the  adjacent  dogs,  and  assume  toward 
John,  the  pug,  the  role  of  guide,  philosopher  and  friend. 
Albert  Edward  Murphy  and  his  children  were  very 
happy. 

After  dinner  they  went  back  to  take  another  look  at 
Alexander  McBride.  As  they  stood  about  that  hero  in 
an  awed  but  admiring  circle,  John,  the  pug,  rushed 
wildly  into  the  ring,  and  tackled  Alexander  McBride. 
The  coal-scuttle  head  opened  and  closed  on  John,  the 

Pug- 
There  was  a  moment  of  frozen   horror,  and   then 
Albert  Edward    Murphy  and  his  household  fell  upon 
Alexander  McBride  in  a  body. 


56  SANDBURRS 

It  was  too  late.  It  took  thirteen  minutes  and  the 
family  poker  to  open  the  jaws  of  Alexander  McBride. 
Then  John,  the  pug,  fell  to  the  floor,  dead  and  limp  as 

a  wet  bath  towel. 

*  ***** 

Alexander  McBride  had  slain  his  twenty-fourth  dog, 
and  John,  the  pug,  is  only  a  memory  now. 


RED  MIKE 
(ANNALS  OF  THE  BEND) 

"  SAY ! "  remarked  Chucky  as  he  squared  himself 
before  the  greasy  doggery  table,  "I'm  goin'  to  make 
it  whiskey  to-day,  'cause  I  ain't  feelin'  a  t'ing  but  good, 
see!" 

I  asked  the  cause  of  Chucky's  exaltation.  Chucky's 
reason  as  given  for  his  high  spirits  was  unusual. 

"  Red  Mike  gets  ten  spaces  in  Sing  Sing,"  he  said ; 
"  an'  he  does  a  dead  short  stretch  at  that.  He  oughter 
get  d'  chair — that  bloke  had. 

"  Red  Mike  croaks  his  kid,"  vouchsafed  Chucky  in 
further  elucidation.  "  Say  !  it  makes  me  tired  to  t'ink  ! 
She  was  as  good  a  kid,  this  little  Emmer  which  Mike 
does  up,  as  ever  comes  down  d'  Bend.  An'  only 
'leven ! " 

"  Tell  me  the  story,"  I  urged. 

"  This  Red  Mike's  a  hod  carrier,"  continued  Chucky, 
thus  moved,  "  but  ain't  out  to  hoit  himself  be  hard 
woik  at  it ;  he  don't  woik  overtime.  Nit !  Not  on 
your  life  insurance  ! 

"  What  Red  Mike  sooner  do  is  bum  Mulberry  Street 
for  drinks,  an'  hang  'round  s'loons  an'  sling  guff  about 
d'  wrongs  of  d'  woikin'man.  Then  he'd  chase  home, 
an'  bein'  loaded,  he'd  wallop  his  family. 

"  On  d'  level !  I  ain't  got  no  use  ford'  sort  of  a  phyl- 
anthrofist  who  goes  chinnin*  all  night  about  d'  wrongs 

57 


58  SANDBURRS 

of  d'  labour  element  an'  d'  oppressions  of  d'  rich  an' 
then  goes  home  an'  slugs  his  wife.  Say  !  I  t'ink  a  bloke 
who'd  soak  a  skirt,  no  matter  what  she  does — no  mat 
ter  if  she  is  his  wife  !  on  d'  square  !  I  t'ink  he's  rotten." 
And  Chucky  imbibed  deeply,  looking  virtuous. 

"  Well,  at  last,"  said  Chucky,  resuming  his  narrative, 
"  Mike  puts  a  crimp  too  many  in  his  Norah — that's 
his  wife — an'  d'  city  'torities  plants  her  in  Potters' 
Field." 

"Did  Mike  kill  her?"  I  queried,  a  bit  horrified  at 
this  murderous  development  of  Chucky's  tale. 

"  Sure !  "  assented  Chucky,  "  Mike  kills  her." 

"  Shoot  her?"  I  suggested. 

"  Nit !  "  retorted  Chucky  disgustedly.  "  Shoot  her ! 
Mike  ain't  got  no  gun.  If  he  had,  he'd  hocked  it  long 
before  he  got  to  croak  anybody  wit'  it.  Naw,  Mike 
does  Norah  be  his  constant  abuse,  see !  Beats  d'  life 
out  of  her  be  degrees. 

"  When  Norah's  gone,"  resumed  Chucky,  "  Emmer, 
who's  d'  oldest  of  d'  t'ree  kids,  does  d'  mudder  act  for 
d'  others.  She's  'leven,  like  I  says.  An'  little ! — she 
ain't  bigger'n  a  drink  of  whiskey,  Emmer  ain't. 

"  But  youse  should  oughter  see  her  hustle  to  line  up 
an'  take  care  of  them  two  young-ones.  Only  eight 
an'  five  dey  be.  Emmer  washes  d'  duds  for  'em,  and 
does  all  sorts  of  stunts  to  get  grub,  an'  tries  like  an  old 
woman,  night  an'  day,  to  bring  'em  up. 

"  D'  neighbours  helps,  of  course,  like  neighbours  da 
when  it's  a  case  of  dead  hard  luck ;  an'  I  meself  has 
t'run  a  quarter  or  two  in  Emmer's  lap  when  I'm  a  bit 
lushy.  Say  !  I'm  d'  easiest  mark  when  I've  been  hit- 
tin'  d'  bottle  ! — I'd  give  d'  nose  off  me  face  ! 

"  If  d'  neighbours  don't  chip  in,  Emmer  an'  them  kids 


RED  MIKE  59 

would  lots  of  times  have  had  a  hard  graft ;  for  mostly 
there  ain't  enough  dough  about  d'  joint  from  one 
week's  end  to  another  to  flag  a  bread  waggon. 

"  Finally  Red  Mike  gets  woise.  After  Norah  goes 
flutterin'  that  time,  Mike's  been  goin'  along  as  usual, 
talkin'  about  d'  woikin'man,  an'  doin'  up  Emmer  an'  d' 
kids  for  a  finish  before  he  rolls  in  to  pound  his  ear. 

"At  foist  it  ain't  so  bad.  He  simply  fetches  one  of 
d'  young  ones  a  back-handed  swipe  across  d'  map  wit' 
his  mit  to  see  it  swap  ends  wit'  itself ;  or  mebbe  he 
soaks  Emmer  in  d'  lamp  an'  blacks  it,  'cause  she's 
older.  But  never  no  woise.  At  least,  not  for  long. 

"  But  as  I  says,  finally  Red  Mike  gets  bad  for  fair. 
He  lams  loose  oftener,  an'  he  licks  Emmer  an'  d'  kids 
more  to  d'  Queen's  taste — more  like  dey's  grown-up 
folks  an'  can  stan'  for  it. 

"  Emmer,  day  after  day  chases  'round  quiet  as  a  rab 
bit,  washin'  d'  kids  an'  feedin'  'em  when  there's  any- 
t'ing,  an'  she  don't  make  no  holler  about  Mike's  jump- 
in'  on  'em  for  fear  if  she  squeals  d'  cops'll  pinch  Mike 
an*  give  him  d'  Island. 

"  Yes,  Emmer  was  a  dead  game  all  right.  Not  only 
she  don't  raise  d'  roar  on  Mike  about  his  soakin'  'em, 
but  more'n  onct  she  cuts  in  an'  takes  d'  smash  Mike 
means  for  one  of  d'  others. 

"  But,  of  course,  you  can  see  poor  Emmer's  finish. 
She's  little,  an'  weak,  an'  t'in,  not  gettin'  enough  to 
chew — for  she  saws  d'  food  off  on  d'  others  as  long 
as  dey  makes  d'  hungry  front — an'  d'  night  Mike  puts 
d'  boots  to  her  an'  breaks  t'ree  of  her  slats,  that  lets 
her  out !  She  croaks  in  four  hours,  be  d'  watch. 

"  Wat  does  Red  Mike  do  it  for  ?  Well,  he  never 
needs  much  of  a  hunch  to  pitch  into  Emmer  an*  df 


60  SANDBURRS 

rest.  But  I  hears  from  me  Rag  who  lives  on  d'  same 
floor  that  it's  all  'cause  Mike  gets  d'  tip  that  Emmer's 
got  two  bits,  an'  he  wants  it  for  booze.  Mike  comes  in 
wit'  a  t'irst  an'  he  ain't  got  d'  price,  an'  he  puts  it  to 
Einmer  she's  got  stuff.  Mike  wants  her  to  spring  her 
plant  an'  chase  d'  duck. 

"  But  Emmer  welched  an*  won't  have  it.  She's 
dead  stubborn  an'  says  d'  kids  must  eat  d'  nex'  day  ; 
and  so  Mike  can't  have  d'  money.  Mike  says  he'll 
kick  d'  heart  out  of  her  if  he  don't  get  it.  Emmer 
Stan's  pat,  an'  so  Mike  starts  in. 

"  It's  'most  an  hour  before  I  gets  there.  D'  poor 
baby — for  that's  all  Emmer  is,  even  if  she  was  dealin' 
d'  game  for  d'  joint — looks  awful,  all  battered  to  bits. 
One  of  d'  city's  jackleg  sawbones  is  there,  mendin' 
Emmer  wit'  bandages.  But  he  says  himself  he's  on  a 
dead  card,  an'  that  Emmer's  going  to  die.  Mike  is 
settin'  on  a  stool  keepin'  mum  an'  lookin'  w'ite  an' 
dopey,  an'  a  cop  is  wit'  him.  Oh,  yes  !  he  gets  d' 
collar  long  before  I  shows  up. 

"  Say  !  d'  scene  ain't  solemn,  oh,  no  !  nit !  Emmer 
lays  back  on  d'  bed — she  twigs  she's  goin'  to  die ;  d' 
doctor  puts  her  on.  Emmer  lays  back  an'  as  good  as 
she  can,  for  her  valves  don't  woik  easy  an'  she  breathes 
hard,  she  tells  'em  what  to  do.  She  says  there's  d' 
washboiler  she  borry's  from  d'  Meyers's  family,  an'  to 
send  it  back. 

" '  An'  I  owes  Mrs.  Lynch,'  says  Emmer — she's 
talkin'  dead  faint — '  a  dime  for  sewin'  me  skirt,  an'  I 
ain't  got  d'  dough.  But  when  dey  takes  dad  to  d' 
coop,  tell  her  to  run  her  lamps  over  d'  plunder,  an'  she 
has  her  pick,  see!  An'  when  I'm  gone,'  goes  on 
Emmer,  *  ast  d'  Gerries  to  take  d'  kids.  Dey  tries  to 


RED  MIKE  61 

get  their  hooks  on  'em  before,  but  I  wanted  to  keep  'em. 
Now  I  can't,  an'  d'  Gerries  is  d'  best  I  can  do.  D' 
Gerries  ain't  so  warm,  but  dey  can  lose  nothin'  in  a 
walk.  An'  wit'  dad  pinched  an'  me  dead,  poor  Danny 
an'  Jennie  is  up  ag'inst  it  for  fair.' 

"Nit;  Emmer  never  sheds  a  weep.  But  say  !  you 
should  a  seen  me  Rag  !  She  was  d'  terror  for  tears ! 
She  does  d'  sob  act  for  two,  an'  don't  you  forget  it. 

"  Emmer  just  lays  there  when  she's  quit  chinnin'  an' 
gives  Mike  d'  icy  eye.  If  ever  a  bloke  goes  unforgiven, 
it's  Red  Mike. 

"  '  Don't  youse  want  d'  priest,  or  mebby  a  preacher  ? ' 
asts  me  Rag  of  Emmer  between  sobs.  Emmer's  voice 
is  most  played  when  she  comes  back  at  her. 

"  '  Wat's  d'  use  ?  '  says  Emmer. 

"Then  she  toins  to  d'  two  kids  who's  be  d'  bed 
cryin',  an'  tries  to  kiss  'em,  but  it's  a  move  too  many 
for  her.  She  twists  back  wit'  d'  pain,  an'  bridges  her 
self  like  you  see  a  wrestler,  an'  when  she  sinks  straight 
wit'  d'  bed  ag'in,  d'  red  blood  is  comin'  out  of  her  face. 
Emmer's  light  is  out. 

"  I  tumbles  to  it  d'  foist.  As  I  leads  me  Rag  back 
to  our  room — for  I  can  see  she's  out  to  t'row  a  fit — d' 
cop  takes  Red  Mike  down  be  d'  stairs." 


HAMILTON  FINNERTY'S  HEART 

(BY  THE  OFFICE  BOY) 

CHAPTER  I 

FAR  up  in  Harlem,  on  a  dead  swell  street,  the  chance 
pedestrian  as  he  chases  himself  by  the  Ville  Finnerty, 
may  see  a  pale,  wrung  face  pressing  itself  against  the 
pane.  It  is  the  map  of  Hamilton  Finnerty. 

"Wat's  d'  matter  wit'  d'  bloke?"  whispered  Kid 
Dugan,  the  gasman's  son,  to  his  young  companion,  as 
they  stood  furtively  piping  off  the  Ville  Finnerty. 
"  Is  it  '  D'  Pris'ner  of  Zenda  '  down  to  date  ?  " 

"  Stash  !  "  said  his  chum  in  a  low  tone.  "  Don't  say 
a  woid.  That  guy  was  goin'  to  be  hitched  to  a  sou- 
brette.  At  d'  las'  minute  d'  skirt  goes  back  on  him — 
won't  stan'  for  it ;  see !  Now  d'  sucker's  nutty.  Dey's 
thrunning  dice  for  him  at  Bloomin'dale  right  now! " 

It  was  a  sad,  sad  story  of  how  two  loving  hearts 
were  made  to  break  away ;  of  how  in  their  ignorance 
the  police  declared  themselves  in  on  a  play  of  which 
they  wotted  nit,  and  queered  it. 

CHAPTER  II 

WHEN  the  betrothal  of  Isabelle  Imogene  McSvveen 

to  Hamilton  Finnerty  was  tipped  off  to  their  set,  the 
62 


HAMILTON  Fil\7NERTY'S  HEART        63 

Mite  of  Harlem  fairly  quivered  with  the  glow  and 
glory  of  it.  The  Four  Hundred  were  agog. 

"  It's  d'  swiftest  deal  of  d'  season  !  "  said  De  Pyg- 
styster. 

"  Hammy  won't  do  a  t'ing  to  McSween's  millions,  I 
don't  t'ink  !  "  said  Von  Pretselbok. 

"  Hammy'll  boin  a  wet  dog.  An'  don't  youse  forget 
it,  I'll  be  in  on  d'  incineration !  "  said  Goosevelt. 


CHAPTER  III 

HAMILTON  FINNERTY  embarked  for  England.  The 
beautiful  Isabelle  Imogene  McSween  had  been  plung 
ing  on  raiment  in  Paree.  The  wedding  was  to  be 
pulled  off  in  two  weeks  at  St.  Paul's,  London.  It  was 
to  be  a  corker ;  for  the  McSweens  were  hot  potatoes 
and  rolled  high.  Nor  were  the  Finnerties  listed  under 
the  head  of  Has-beens.  It  is  but  justice  to  both 
families  to  say,  they  were  in  it  with  both  feet. 

When  Hamilton  Finnerty  went  ashore  at  Liverpool 
he  communed  with  himself. 

"  It's  five  days  ere  dey  spring  d'  weddin'  march  in 
me  young  affairs,"  soliloquised  Hamilton  Finnerty, 
"  an'  I  might  as  well  toin  in  an'  do  d'  village  of  Liver 
pool  while  I  waits.  A  good  toot  will  be  d'  t'ing  to 
allay  me  natural  uneasiness." 

Thus  it  was  that  Hamilton  Finnerty  went  forth  to 
tank,  and  spread  red  paint,  and  plough  a  furrow  through 
the  hamlet  of  Liverpool.  But  Hamilton  was  a  dead 
wise  fowl.  He  had  been  on  bats  before,  and  was 
aware  that  they  didn't  do  a  thing  to  money. 

"  For  fear  I'll  blow  me  dough,"  said  Hamilton,  still 


64  SANDBURRS 

communing  with  himself,  "  I'll  buy  meself  an'  chip  d' 
retoin  tickets,  see !  It's  a  lead-pipe  cinch  then,  we 
goes  back/' 

And  the  forethoughtful  Hamilton  sprung  his  roll 
and  went  against  the  agent,  for  return  tickets.  They 
were  to  be  good  on  the  very  steamer  he  chased  over 
in.  They  were  for  him  and  the  winsome  Isabelle 
Imogene  McSween,  soon  to  be  Mrs.  Finnerty.  The 
paste-boards  called  for  the  steamer's  trip  three  weeks 
away. 

"  There  !  "  quoth  Hamilton  Finnerty,  as  he  concealed 
the  tickets  in  his  trousseau,  "  I've  sewed  buttons  on 
the  future.  We  don't  walk  back,  see !  I  can  now 
relax  an'  toin  meself  to  Gin,  Dog's  Head  and  a  general 
whizz.  I  won't  have  no  picnic, — oh,  no !  not  on  your 


eyes! 


CHAPTER  IV 


IT  was  early  darkness  on  the  second  day.  One  after 
another  the  windows  were  showing  a  glim.  Liverpool 
was  lighting  up  for  the  evening.  A  limp  figure  stood 
holding  to  a  lamp-post.  The  figure  was  loaded  to  the 
guards.  It  was  Hamilton  Finnerty,  and  his  light  was 
out.  He  had  just  been  fired  from  that  hostelry  known 
as  The  Swan  with  the  Four  Legs. 

"  I  'opes  th'  duffer  won't  croak  on  me  doorstep," 
said  the  blooming  barmaid,  as  she  cast  her  lamps  on 
Hamilton  Finnerty  from  the  safe  vantage  of  a  window 
of  The  Swan  with  the  Four  Legs. 

There  was  no  danger  of  Hamilton  Finnerty  dying, 
not  in  a  thousand  years.  But  he  was  woozy  and  tum 
bled  not  to  events  about  him.  He  knew  neither  his 


"THEY  WERE    GOOD    POLICE    PEOPLE,    IGNORANT    BUT  INNOCENT." Pat 


HAMILTON  FINNERTY'S  HEART        65 

name,  nor  his  nativity.  Nor  could  he  speak,  for  his 
tongue  was  on  a  spree  with  the  Gin  and  the  Dog's 
Head. 


CHAPTER  V 

As  Hamilton  Finnerty  stood  holding  the  lamp-post, 
and  deeming  it  his  "  only  own,"  two  of  the  Queen's 
constabulary  approached. 

"  'Ere's  a  bloomin'  gow,  Jem!  "  said  the  one  born  in 
London.  "  Now  'oo  d'ye  tyke  the  gent  to  be?" 

They  were  good  police  people,  ignorant  but  innocent ; 
and  disinclined  to  give  Hamilton  Finnerty  the  collar. 

"Frisk  'un,  Bill,"  advised  the  one  from  Yorkshire ; 
"  it's  loike  th'  n'aime  bees  in  'uns  pawkets." 

The  two  went  through  the  make-up  of  Hamilton 
Finnerty.  Jagged  as  he  was,  he  heeded  them  not. 
They  struck  the  steamer  tickets  and  noted  the  steamer's 
name,  but  not  the  day  of  sailing. 

As  if  anxious  to  aid  in  the  overthrow  of  Hamilton 
Finnerty,  the  steamer  was  still  at  her  dock,  with  pre 
parations  all  but  complete  for  the  return  slide  to  New 
York. 

"  Now  'ere's  a  luvely  mess  !  "  said  London  Bill,  look 
ing  at  the  tickets.  "  The  bloody  bowt  gows  in  twenty 
minutes,  an'  'ere's  this  gent  a-gettin'  'eeself  left !  An' 
th'  tickets  for  'ees  missus,  too !  It's  punds  t'  peanuts, 
th'  loidy's  aboard  th'  bowt  tearin'  'er  blessed  heyes 
out  for  'im.  Hy,  say  there,  kebby  !  bear  a  'and  !  This 
gent's  got  to  catch  a  bowt !  " 

Hamilton  Finnerty,  dumb  with  Gin  and  Dog's  Head, 
was  tumbled  into  the  cab,  and  the  vehicle,  taking  its 
5 


66  SANDBURRS 

hunch  from  the  excited  officers,  made  the  run  of  its 
life  to  the  docks.     They  were  in  time. 

"It  tak's  th'  droonken  'uns  t'av  th'  loock!"  re 
marked  Yorkshire  Jem  cheerfully  to  London  Bill,  as 
they  stood  wiping  their  honest  faces  on  the  dock, 
while  the  majestic  steamer,  with  Hamilton  Finnerty 
aboard,  worked  slowly  out. 

CHAPTER  VI 

WHEN  Hamilton  Finnerty  came  to  his  senses  he  was 
one  hundred  miles  on  his  way  to  New  York.  For  an 
hour  he  was  off  his  trolley.  It  was  six  days  before  he 
landed,  and  during  that  period  he  did  naught  but  chew 
the  rag. 

Hamilton  Finnerty  chased  straight  for  Harlem  and 
sought  refuge  in  the  Ville  Finnerty.  He  must  think; 
he  must  reorganise  his  play !  He  would  compile  a 
fake  calculated  to  make  a  hit  as  an  excuse  with  Isabelle 
Imogene  McSween,  and  cable  it.  All  might  yet  be 
well. 

But  alas!  As  Hamilton  Finnerty  opened  the  door  of 
the  Ville  Finnerty  the  butler  sawed  off  a  cablegram 
upon  him.  It  was  from  Isabelle  Imogene  McSween 
to  Hamilton  Finnerty's  cable  address  of  "  Hamfmny." 

As  Hamilton  Finnerty  read  the  fatal  words,  he  fell 
all  over  himself  with  a  dull,  sickening  thud.  And  well 
he  might !  The  message  threw  the  boots  into  the  last 
hope  of  Hamilton  Finnerty.  It  read  as  follows : 

HAMFINNY: — Miscreant!  Villain!  A  friend  put  me  onto  your  skip 
from  Liverpool.  It  was  a  hobo  trick.  But  I  broke  even  with  you.  I 
was  dead  aware  that  you  might  do  a  sneak  at  the  last  minute,  and  was 
organised  with  a  French  Count  up  me  sleeve  ;  see  I  Me  wedding  cam* 


HAMILTON  FINNERTY'S  HEART        67 

off  just  the  same.  Me  hubby's  a  bute  1  I  call  him  Papa,  and  he's  easy 
money.  Hoping  to  see  you  on  me  return,  nit,  and  renew  our  acquaint 
ance,  nit,  I  am  yours,  nit. 

ISABELLE  IMOGENE  MCSWEEN-MARAT  DE  ROCHETWISTER. 

Outside  the  Ville  Finnerty  swept  the  moaning  winds, 
dismal  with  November's  prophecy  of  snow.  At  inter 
vals  the  election  idiot  blew  his  proud  horn  in  the 
neighbouring  thoroughfare.  It  was  nearly  morning 
when  the  doctor  said,  that,  while  Hamilton  Finnerty's 
life  would  be  spared,  he  would  be  mentally  dopey  the 
balance  of  his  blighted  days. 


SHORT  CREEK  DAVE 

(WOLFVILLE) 

SHORT  CREEK  DAVE  was  one  of  Wolfville's  lead 
ing  citizens.  In  fact  his  friends  would  not  have 
scrupled  at  the  claim  that  Short  Creek  Dave  was  a 
leading  citizen  of  Arizona.  Therefore  when  the  news 
came  over  from  Tucson  that  Short  Creek  Dave,  who 
had  been  paying  that  metropolis  a  breezy  visit,  had,  in 
an  advertant  moment,  strolled  within  the  radius  of  a 
gospel  meeting  then  and  there  prevailing,  and  suffered 
conversion,  Wolfville  became  spoil  and  prey  to  some 
excitement. 

"  I  tells  him,"  said  Tutt,  who  brought  the  tidings, 
"  not  to  go  tamperin'  'round  this  yere  meetin'.  But 
he  would  have  it.  He  simply  keeps  pervadin'  about 
the  '  go-in  '  place,  an'  it  looks  like  I  can't  herd  him 
away.  Says  I :  '  Dave,  you  don't  onderstand  this  yere 
game  they're  turnin'  inside.  Which  you  keep  out  a 
whole  lot,  you'll  be  safer!'  But  warnings  ain't  no 
good  ;  Short  Creek  don't  regard  'em  a  little  bit." 

"  This  yere  Short  Creek  is  always  speshul  obstinate 
that  a-way,"  said  Dan  Boggs,  "an*  he  gets  moods  fre 
quent  when  he  jest  won't  stay  where  he  is  nor  go  any 
where  else.  I  don't  marvel  none  you  don't  do  nothin* 
with  him." 

"  Let  it  go  as  it  lays !  "  observed  Cherokee  Hall,  "  I 
68 


SHORT  CREEK  DAVE  69 

reckons  Short  Creek  knows  his  business,  an*  can  protect 
himse'f  in  any  game  they  opens  on  him.  I  ain't  my- 
se'f  none  astonished  by  these  yere  news.  I  knows  him 
to  do  some  mighty  locoed  things,  sech  as  breakin'  a 
pair  to  draw  to  a  three-flush  ;  an'  it  seems  like  he's 
merely  a  pursooin'  of  his  usual  system  in  this  relig'ous 
lunge.  However,  he'll  be  in  Wolfville  to-morry,  an' 
then  we'll  know  a  mighty  sight  more  about  it ;  pendin' 
of  which  let's  irrigate.  Barkeep,  please  inquire  out  the 
beverages  for  the  band !  " 

Those  of  Wolfville  there  present  knew  no  cause  to 
pursue  the  discussion  so  pleasantly  ended,  and  drew 
near  the  bar.  The  debate  took  place  in  the  Red  Light, 
so,  as  one  observed  on  the  issuance  of  Cherokee's  in 
vitation  :  "  They  weren't  far  from  centres." 

Cherokee  himself  was  a  suave  suitor  of  fortune  who 
presided  behind  his  own  faro  game.  Reputed  to  pos 
sess  a  "  straight "  deal  box,  he  held  high  place  in  the 
Wolfville  breast. 

Next  day  ;  and  Wolfville  began  to  suffer  an  increased 
exaltation.  Feeling  grew  nervous  as  the  time  for  the 
coming  of  the  Tucson  stage  approached.  An  outsider 
might  not  have  detected  this  fever.  It  found  its  evi 
dence  in  the  unusual  activity  of  monte,  high  ball,  stud 
and  kindred  relaxations.  Faro,  too,  displayed  some 
madness  of  spirit. 

At  last  out  of  the  grey  and  heat-shimmer  of  the 
plains  a  cloud  of  dust  announced  the  coming  of  the 
stage.  Chips  were  cashed  and  games  cleaned  up,  and 
presently  the  population  of  Wolfville  stood  in  the 
street  to  catch  as  early  a  glimpse  as  might  be  of  the 
converted  one. 

"  I  don't  reckon  now  he's  goin'  to  look  sech  a  whole 


TO  SANDBURRS 

lot  different  neither !  "  observed  Faro  Nell.  She  stood 
near  Cherokee  Hall,  awaiting  the  coming  stage. 

"  I  wonder  would  it  *  go  '  to  ask  Dave  for  to  drink?  " 
said  Tutt,  in  a  tone  of  general  inquiry. 

"  Shore  !  "  argued  Dan  Boggs  ;  "  an'  why  not  ?  " 

"  Oh,  nothin'  why  not !  "  replied  Tutt,  as  he  watched 
the  stage  come  up  ;  "  only  Dave's  nacherally  a  peevish 
person  that  a-way,  an'  I  don't  reckon  now  his  enterin' 
the  fold  has  redooced  the  restlessness  of  that  six- 
shooter  of  his'n,  none  whatever." 

"  All  the  same,"  said  Cherokee  Hall,  "  p'litenes 
'mong  gents  should  be  observed.  I  asks  this  yere 
Short  Creek  to  drink  so  soon  as  ever  he  arrives  ;  an'  I 
ain't  lookin'  to  see  him  take  it  none  invidious,  neither." 

With  a  rattle  of  chains  and  a  creaking  of  straps  the 
stage  and  its  six  high-headed  horses  pulled  up  at  the 
postoffice  door.  The  mail  bags  were  kicked  off,  the 
express  boxes  tumbled  into  the  street,  and  in  the  gen 
eral  rattle  and  crash  the  eagerly  expected  Short  Creek 
Dave  stepped  upon  the  sidewalk. 

There  was  possibly  a  more  eager  scanning  of  his 
person  in  the  thought  that  the  great  inward  change 
might  have  its  outward  evidences ;  a  more  vigorous 
shaking  of  his  hand,  perhaps ;  but  beyond  these,  curi 
ous  interest  did  not  go.  Not  a  word  nor  a  look  touch 
ing  Short  Creek's  religious  exploits  betrayed  the  ques 
tion  tugging  at  the  Wolfville  heart.  Wolfville  was  too 
polite.  And,  again,  Wolfville  was  too  cautious.  Next 
to  horse-stealing,  curiosity  is  the  greatest  crime.  It's 
worse  than  crime,  it's  a  blunder.  Wolfville  merely  ex 
pressed  its  polite  satisfaction  in  Short  Creek  Dave's 
return,  and  took  it  out  in  handshaking.  The  only 
incident  worth  record  was  when  Cherokee  Hall  ob- 


SHORT  CREEK  DAVE  71 

served  in  a  spirit  of  bland  but  experimental  friend 
ship  : 

"  I  don't  reckon,  Dave,  you-all  is  objectin'  to 
whiskey  none  after  your  ride  ?  " 

"  Which  I  ain't  done  so  usual,"  observed  Dave 
cheerfully,  "  but  this  yere  time,  Cherokee,  I'll  have  to 
pass.  Confidin'  the  trooth  to  you-all,  I'm  some  off  on 
nose-paint  now.  I'm  allowin'  to  tell  you  the  win-an'- 
lose  tharof  later  on.  Now,  if  you-alls  will  excuse  me,  I'll 
go  wanderin'  over  to  the  O.  K.  House  an'  feed  myse'f 
a  whole  lot." 

"  I  shore  reckons  he's  converted  !  "  said  Tutt,  and  he 
shook  his  head  gloomily.  "  I  wouldn't  care  none,  only 
it's  me  as  prevails  on  Dave  to  go  over  to  Tucson  that 
time ;  an'  so  I  feels  responsible." 

"  Whatever  of  it  ? "  responded  Dan  Boggs,  with  a 
burst  of  energy,  "  I  don't  see  no  reecriminations  comin', 
nor  why  this  yere's  to  be  regarded.  If  Dave  wants  to 
be  relig'ous  an'  sing  them  hymns  a  heap,  you  bet ! 
that's  his  American  right !  I'll  gamble  a  hundred  dol 
lars,  Dave  splits  even  with  every  deal,  or  beats  it.  I'm 
with  Dave ;  his  system  does  for  me,  every  time  !  " 

The  next  day  the  excitement  began  to  subside. 
Late  in  the  afternoon  a  notice  posted  on  the  postoffice 
door  caused  it  to  rise  again.  The  notice  announced 
that  Short  Creek  Dave  would  preach  that  evening  in 
the  warehouse  of  the  New  York  Store. 

"I  reckons  we-alls  better  go!"  said  Cherokee  Hall. 
"  I'm  goin'  to  turn  up  my  box  an'  close  the  game  at 
first  drink  time  this  evenin',  an'  Hamilton  says  he's  out 
to  shut  up  the  dance  hall,  seein'  as  how  several  of  the 
ladies  is  due  to  sing  a  lot  in  the  choir.  We-alls  might 
as  well  turn  loose  an'  give  Short  Creek  the  best  whirl 


72  SANDBURRS 

in  the  wheel — might  as  well  make  the  play  to  win,  an* 
start  him  straight  along  the  new  trail." 

"  That's  whatever  !  "  agreed  Dan  Boggs.  He  had 
recovered  from  his  first  amazement,  and  now  entered 
into  the  affair  with  spirit. 

That  evening  the  New  York  Store's  warehouse  was 
as  brilliantly  a-light  as  a  mad  abundance  of  candles 
could  make  it.  All  Wolfville  was  there.  As  a  result 
of  conferences  held  in  private  with  Short  Creek  Dave, 
and  by  that  convert's  request,  Old  Man  Enright  took 
a  seat  by  the  drygoods  box  which  was  to  serve  as  a 
pulpit.  Doc  Peets,  also,  was  asked  to  assume  a  place 
at  the  Evangelist's  left.  The  congregation  disposed 
itself  about  on  the  improvised  benches  which  the  ardour 
of  Boggs  had  provided. 

At  8  o'clock  Short  Creek  Dave  walked  up  the  space 
in  the  centre  reserved  as  an  aisle,  carrying  a  giant 
Bible.  This  latter  he  placed  on  the  drygoods  box. 
Old  Man  Enright,  at  a  nod  from  Short  Creek  Dave, 
called  gently  for  attention,  and  addressed  the  meeting 
briefly. 

"  This  yere  is  a  prayer  meetin'  of  the  camp,"  said 
Enright,  "  an'  I'm  asked  by  Dave  to  preside,  which 
I  accordin'  do.  No  one  need  make  any  mistake  about 
the  character  of  this  gatherin',  or  its  brand.  This  yere 
is  a  relig'ous  meetin'.  I  am  not  myse'f  given  that 
a-way,  but  I'm  allers  glad  to  meet  up  with  folks  who 
be,  an'  see  that  they  have  a  chance  in  for  their  ante, 
an'  their  game  is  preserved.  I'm  one,  too,  who  believes 
a  little  religion  wouldn't  hurt  this  yere  camp  much. 
Next  to  a  lynchin',  I  don't  know  of  a  more  excellent 
inflooence  in  a  western  camp  than  these  meetin's.  I 
ain't  expectin'  to  cut  in  on  this  play  none  myse'f,  an* 


SHORT  CREEK  DAVE  73 

only  set  yere,  as  does  Peets,  in  the  name  of  order,  an' 
for  the  purposes  of  a  squar'  deal.  Which  I  now  intro- 
dooces  to  you  a  gent  who  is  liable  to  be  as  good  a 
preacher  as  ever  thumps  a  Bible — your  old  pard,  Short 
Creek  Dave." 

"  Mr.  Pres'dent !  "  said  Short  Creek  Dave,  turning 
to  Enright. 

"  Short  Creek  Dave  !  "  replied  Enright  sententiously, 
bowing  gravely  in  recognition. 

"  An'  ladies  an'  gents  of  Wolfville ! "  continued 
Dave,  "  I  opens  this  racket  with  a  prayer." 

The  prayer  proceeded.  It  was  fervent  and  earnest ; 
replete  with  unique  expression  and  personal  allusion. 
In  the  last,  the  congregation  took  a  warm  interest. 

Towards  the  close,  Dave  bent  his  energies  in  suppli 
cation  for  the  regeneration  of  Texas  Thompson,  whom 
he  represented  in  his  orisons  as  by  nature  good,  but 
living  a  misguided  and  vicious  life.  The  audience 
was  listening  with  approving  attention,  when  there 
came  an  interruption.  It  was  from  Texas  Thomp 
son. 

"  Mr.  Pres'dent,"  said  Texas  Thompson,  "  I  rises  to 
ask  a  question  an'  put  for'ard  a  protest." 

"  The  gent  will  state  his  p'int,"  responded  Enright, 
rapping  on  the  drygoods  box. 

"  Which  the  same  is  this,"  resumed  Texas  Thomp 
son,  drawing  a  long  breath.  "I  objects  to  Dave 
a-tacklin'  the  Redeemer  for  me.  I  protests  ag'in  him 
makin'  statements  that  I'm  ornery  enough  to  pillage  a 
stage.  This  yere  talk  is  liable  to  queer  me  on  High. 
I  objects  to  it !  " 

"  Prayer  is  a  device  without  rools  or  limit,"  re 
sponded  Enright.  "  Dave  makes  his  runnin'  with  the 


74  SANDBURRS 

bridle  off;  an'  the  chair,  tharfore,  decides  ag'in  the 
p'int  of  order." 

*'  An'  the  same  bein'  the  case,'*  rejoined  Texas 
Thompson  with  heat,  "  a-waivin'  of  the  usual  appeal  to 
the  house,  all  I've  got  to  say  is,  I'm  a  peaceful  gent ; 
I  has  allers  been  the  friend  of  Short  Creek  Dave. 
Which  I  even  assists  an'  abets  Boggs  in  packin'  in 
these  yere  benches,  an'  aids  to  promote  this  meetin'. 
But  I  gives  notice  now,  if  Short  Creek  Dave  persists 
in  malignin'  of  me  to  the  Great  White  Throne,  as  yere- 
tofore,  I'll  shore  call  on  him  to  make  them  statements 
good  with  his  gun  as  soon  as  ever  the  contreebution 
box  is  passed." 

"The  chair  informs  the  gent,"  said  Enright  with 
cold  dignity,  "  that  Dave,  bein'  now  a  Evangelist, 
can't  make  no  gun  plays,  nor  go  canterin'  out  to  shoot 
as  of  a  former  day.  However,  the  chair  recognises  the 
rights  of  the  gent,  an',  standin'  as  the  chair  does  in  the 
position  of  lookout  to  this  game,  the  chair  nom'nates 
Dan'l  Boggs,  who's  officiatin'  as  deacon  hereof,  to  back 
these  yere  orisons  with  his  six-shooter  as  soon  as  ever 
church  is  out,  in  person." 

"  It  goes!  "  responded  Boggs.  "  I  proudly  assoomes 
Dave's  place." 

"  Mr.  Pres'dent,"  interrupted  Short  Creek  Dave, 
"jest  let  me  get  my  views  in  yere.  It's  my  turn  all 
right,  as  I  makes  clear,  easy.  I've  looked  up  things 
some,  an*  I  finds  that  the  Apostle  Peter,  who  was  a 
great  range  boss  of  them  days,  scroopled  not  to  fight. 
Which  I  trails  out  after  Peter  in  this.  I  might  add, 
too,  that  while  it  gives  me  pain  to  be  obleeged  to  shoot 
up  brother  Texas  Thompson  in  the  first  half  of  the 
first  meetin'  we  holds  in  Wolfville,  still  the  path  of 


"I    THARFORE    MOVES    \VE    ADJOURN    TEN    MINUTES." l\ige    7  j. 


/^  *  * ec /  * Ot        '  '       *  r  " 


SHORT  CREEK  DAVE  75 

dooty  is  plain,  an'  I  shall  shorely  walk  tharin,  fearin' 
nothin'.  I  tharfore  moves  we  adjourn  ten  minutes,  an' 
as  thar  is  plenty  of  moon  outside,  if  the  chair  will  lend 
me  its  gun — I'm  not  packin'  of  sech  frivolities  no  more, 
regyardin'  of  'em  in  the  light  of  sinful  bluffs — I  trusts 
to  Providence  to  convince  brother  Texas  Thompson 
that  he's  followed  off  the  wrong  waggon  track.  You- 
alls  can  gamble !  I  knows  my  business.  I  ain't  4- 
flushin'  none  when  I  lines  out  to  pray  !  " 

"  Onless  objection  is  heard,  this  meetin'  will  stand 
adjourned  for  ten  minutes,"  said  Enright,  at  the  same 
time  passing  Short  Creek  Dave  his  pistol. 

Fifteen  paces  were  stepped  off,  and  the  opponents 
faced  up  in  the  moonlit  street.  Enright,  Peets,  Hall, 
Boggs,  Tutt,  Moore  and  the  rest  of  the  congregation 
made  a  line  of  admiration  on  the  sidewalk. 

"  I  counts  one !  two !  three  !  an'  then  I  drops  the 
contreebution  box,"  said  Enright,  "  whereupon  you-alls 
fires  an'  advances  at  will.  Be  you  ready  ?  " 

The  shooting  began  on  the  word.  When  the  smoke 
blew  away,  Texas  Thompson  staggered  to  the  side 
walk  and  sat  down.  There  was  a  bullet  in  his  hip,  and 
the  wound,  for  the  moment,  brought  a  feeling  of  sick 
ness. 

"  The  congregation  will  now  take  its  seats  in  the 
sanctooary,"  remarked  Enright,  "  an'  play  will  be  re- 
soomed.  Tutt,  two  of  you-alls  carry  Texas  over  to  the 
hotel,  an'  fix  him  up  all  right.  Yereafter,  I'll  visit  him 
an'  p'int  out  his  errors.  This  shows  concloosive  that 
Short  Creek  Dave  is  licensed  from  Above  to  pray  any 
gait  for  whoever  he  deems  meet,  an'  I'm  mighty 
pleased  it  occurs.  It's  shore  goin'  to  promote  confi 
dence  in  Dave's  ministrations." 


76  SANDBURRS 

The  concourse  was  duly  in  its  seats  when  Short 
Creek  Dave  again  reached  the  pulpit. 

"  I  will  now  resoome  my  intercessions  for  our  onfor- 
tunate  brother,  Texas  Thompson/'  said  Short  Creek 
Dave. 

"  I  know'd  he  would,"  commented  Dan  Boggs,  as 
twenty  dollars  came  over  addressed  by  the  wounded 
Thompson  to  the  contribution  box.  "  Texas  Thomp 
son  is  one  of  the  reasonablest  sports  in  Wolfville. 
Also  you  can  bet !  relig'ous  trooths  allers  assert  them- 
se'ves." 


CRIME  THAT  FAILED 
(ANNALS  OF  THE  BEND) 

"  SAY  !  Matches,"  said  Chucky,  removing  his  nose 
from  his  glass,  "  youse  remember  d'  Jersey  Bank  ?  I 
means  d'  time  youse  has  to  go  to  cover  an'  d'  whole 
mob  is  pinched  in  d'  hole.  Tell  us  d'  story ;  it's  dead 
int'restin'." 

This  last  was  to  me  in  a  husky  whisper. 

"  That  play  was  a  case  of  fail,"  remarked  Mollie 
Matches  thoughtfully.  Then  turning  to  me  as  chief 
auditor,  he  continued.  "  It's  over  twenty  years  ago  ; 
just  on  d'  heels  of  d'  Centenyul  at  Phil'delfy.  D'  graft 
was  fairly  flossy  durin'  d'  Centenyul,  an'  I  had  quite  a 
pot  of  dough. 

4<  One  day  a  guy  comes  to  me  ;  he's  a  bank  woiker, 
what  d'  fly  people  calls  '  a  gopher  man  '  ;  he's  a  mug 
who's  onto  all  d'  points  about  safes  an'  such.  Well,  as 
I  says,  this  soon  guy  comes  chasm'  to  me. 

"'  Matches,'  he  says,  'don't  say  a  woid  ;  I'll  put 
youse  onto  an  easy  trick.  Come  wit'  me  to  Jersey,  an' 
I'll  show  you  a  bin  what's  all  organised  to  be  cracked. 
Any  old  hobo  could  toin  off  d'  play ;  it's  a  walk-over.' 

"  Wit'  that,  for  I  had  confidence  in  this  mark,  see  ! 
we  skins  over  to  Jersey,  an'  he  steers  me  out  to  a  near 
by  town  an'  points  me  out  a  bank.  What  makes  it  a 
good  t'ing  is  a  vacant  joint,  wit'  a  '  To  Rent '  sign  in 
d'  window,  built  clost  ag'inst  d'  side  of  d'  bank. 

77 


78  SANDBURRS 

" '  Are  youse  on  ? '  says  d'  goph,  pointin*  his  main 
hook  at  d'  empty  house,  an*  then  at  d'  bank. 

"  Bern*  I'm  no  farmer  meself,  I  takes  no  time  to 
tumble.  We  screws  our  nuts,  me  an'  d'  goph, 
to  d'  duck  who  owns  d'  house,  an'  d'  nex'  news 
is  we  rents  it.  D'  duck  who  does  d'  rentin'  says  he 
can  see  we're  on  d'  level  d'  moment  we  floats  in  ;  but 
all  d'  same,  if  we  can  bring  him  a  tip  or  two  on  d' 
point  of  our  bein'  square  people  from  one  or  two  high 
rollers  whose  names  goes,  he'll  take  it  kindly.  We 
says,  suttenly;  we  fills  him  to  d' chin  wit' all  d'  ref- 
runces  he  needs. 

"  '  We  won't  do  a  t'ing  but  send  our  pastor  to  youse/ 
puts  in  d'  goph. 

11  Good  man,  me  pal  was,  as  ever  draws  slide  on  a 
dark  lantern,  but  always  out  to  be  funny. 

"  We  rents  d'  joint,  as  I  states,  an'  no  more  is  said 
about  refrunces.  Now,  when  it  comes  to  d'  real  woik, 
I  ain't  goin'  to  do  none,  see  !  I  ain't  down  to  dig  an* 
pick  ;  it  spoils  me  hooks  for  dippin'.  What  I  does  is 
furnish  d'  tools  an'  d'  dough. 

"  I  goes  back  an'  gets  a  whole  kit  of  bank  tools — 
drills,  centre-bits,  cold-chisels,  jointed-jimmies,  wedges, 
pullers,  spreaders,  fuse,  powder,  mauls  an'  mufflers — I 
gets  d'  whole  t'ing,  see!  Me  pal  knows  a  brace  of 
pards  who'll  stand  in  on  d'  play.  He  calls  'em  in,  an' 
one  night  d'  entire  squeeze,  wit'  d'  tools,  goes  over  an' 
plants  themselfs  in  d'  empty  house.  Yes;  dey  takes 
grub  an'  blankets  an'  all  dey  needs. 

"  Before  this  I  goes  ag'inst  d'  bank  janitor  ;  an* 
while  he's  a  fairly  downy  party,  I  wins  him.  D'  jan 
itor  of  d'  bank  gets  a  hundred  bones,  an'  I  gets  a  map 
of  d'  bank,  which  shows  where  d'  money  is  planted  an' 
all  about  it. 


CRIME  THAT  FAILED  79 

"  What's  d'  idee  ?  Our  racket  is  to  tunnel  from  d' 
cellar  of  d'  joint  we  rents,  under  d'  side  wall  of  d'  bank, 
an'  keep  on  until  we  reaches  d'  stuff,  see  !  We're  out 
to  do  all  d'  woik  we  can  wit'out  lettin'  d'  bank-crush 
twig  d'  graft.  Then  we  waits  till  Saturday  noon.  D' 
bank  shuts  up  on  Saturday  noon,  understan' !  An' 
then  we  has  till  Monday  at  9  o'clock  to  finish  d'  woik. 
An'  say  !  it's  time  plenty  !  It  gives  us  time  to  boin  ! 

"  As  I  states,  I  don't  do  any  of  d'  woik.  D'  gopher 
an'  his  two  pals  is  all  d'  job  calls  for.  So  I  lays  dead 
in  d'  town,  ready  to  split  out  me  piece  of  d'  plunder, 
an'  waits  results. 

"  To  hurry  me  yarn,  everyt'ing  woiks  like  it's 
greased  to  fit  d'  play.  D'  mob  gets  d'  tunnel  as  far  as 
it'll  go.  Saturday  noon  comes  an'  d'  last  sucker  who 
belongs  to  d'  bank  skips  out.  It's  then  me  gopher  an' 
his  two  pals  t'rows  themselfs. 

"  All  t'rough  Saturday  afternoon  an*  all  d'  night  till 
daylight  Sunday  mornin',  them  gezebos  woiks  away  like 
dogs.  An'  say  !  don't  youse  ever  doubt  it  !  dey  was 
winnin'  in  a  walk. 

"  But  all  this  time  d'  pins  was  set  up  to  do  'em.  It 
was  d'  same  old  story.  There's  always  some  little  no- 
good  bet  a  crook  is  sure  to  overlook,  an'  it  goes  d' 
wrong  way  an'  downs  him.  Here's  what  happens  : 

"In  d'  foist  place,  we  forgets  to  take  d'  'To  Rent ' 
sign  out  of  d'  window,  see !  That's  d'  beginnin'.  Nex,' 
me  goph  an'  his  side-partners  digs  so  much  dirt  out  of  d' 
tunnel  it  fills  d'  cellar.  Honest !  it  won't  hold  no 
more. 

"  At  this  last,  dey  takes  to  shovelin'  d'  dirt  into  a 
bushel  basket.  Then  dey  carries  it  up  d'  back  stairs 
and  dumps  it  on  d'  floor  of  a  summer  kitchen.  Be  7 


8o  SANDBURRS 

o'clock  Sunday,  mebby  dey  dumps  as  many  as  six 
basketfuls ;  dumps  it,  as  I  tells  youse,  in  this  lean-to, 
which  is  built  on  d'  rear. 

"Now,  right  at  this  time  there's  an  old  Irish  Moll 
who  keeps  a  boardin'  house  not  far  away  who  is  flyin' 
along  to  early  Mass,  bein'  dead  religious  an'  leary 
about  her  soul,  see !  This  old  goil,  as  she  comes 
sprintin'  along,  gets  her  bleary  old  lamps  on  d'  '  To 
Rent '  card.  All  at  onct  d'  idee  fetches  her  a  t'ump 
in  d'  cocoa  that  d'  house  would  be  out  of  sight  for  a 
boardin'  joint.  Wit'  that  she  steers  herself  in  to  take 
a  squint  an'  size  up  d'  crib. 

"  D'  door  is  locked,  so  d'  old  goil  can't  come  in. 
Wit'  that  she  leads  d'  nex'  best  card  an'  goes  galumpin' 
round,  pipin'  off  d'  place  t'rough  d'  windows.  An'  say  ! 
she  gets  stuck  on  it.  She  t'inks  if  she  can  rent  it,  she 
can  run  d'  dandy  boardin'  house  of  d'  ward  in  it. 

"  As  d'  old  frail  goes  round  d'  place,  among  all  d' 
rest,  she  looks  t'rough  d'  windows  into  d'  summer 
kitchen.  She  gets  onto  d'  dirt  that's  dumped,  as  I 
states,  in  one  corner.  But  she  don't  see  none  of  d' 
gang,  bein'  dey's  down  in  d'  hole  at  d'  time,  so  she 
don't  fasten  to  nothin'. 

"  At  last  she's  seen  enough  an'  sherries  her  nibs  to 
d'  cat'edral. 

"  That's  all  right  if  it's  only  d'  end  ;  but  it  ain't. 
When  it  gets  to  about  2  o'clock,  this  old  skate  in  petti 
coats  goes  toinin'  nutty  ag'in  about  d'  empty  house. 
Over  she  spins  to  grab  another  glimpse,  see!  When 
she  strikes  d'  summer  kitchen  she  comes  near  to 
throwin'  a  faint.  D'  pile  of  rubbidge  is  twenty  times 
as  big ! 

"  That  settles  it !  d'  joint  is  ha'nted  !  an'  wit'    that 


CRIME  THAT  FAILED.  81 

notion  all  tangled  up  in  her  frizzes  d'  old  mut  makes 
a  straight  wake  for  d'  priest. 

"  '  D'  empty  house  nex'  to  d'  bank  is  full  of  ghosts  ! ' 
she  shouts,  an*  then  she  flings  her  apron  over  her  nut 
an'  comes  a  fit. 

"  Now,  this  priest  is  about  as  sudden  a  party  as  ever 
comes  over  d'  ocean.  Youse  can't  give  him  no  stiff 
about  spooks,  see  !  Bein'  nex'  to  d'  bank  is  a  hot  tip, 
an'  he  takes  it. 

"  Nit !  he  don't  go  surgin'  round  for  his  prayer- 
books  an  d'  hully  water.  It  would  have  been  a  dead 
good  t'ing  if  he  had.  Nixie  weedin'  !  D'  long-coat 
sucker  don't  even  come  over  to  d'  house. 

"  What  does  he  do  ?  He  sprints  for  d'  nearest  p'lice 
station  at  a  40  clip,  an'  fills  up  d'  captain  in  charge 
wit'  d'  story  till  youse  can't  rest.  After  that,  it  takes 
d'  p'lice  captain  about  ten  seconts  to  line  up  his  push ; 
an'  be  coppin'  a  sneak,  he  pinches  me  gopher  an'  his 
two  pals  right  in  d'  hole.  Dey  was  gettin'  along 
beautiful  at  d'  time,  an'  in  ten  hours  more  dey  would 
have  had  that  bank  on  d'  hog  for  fair. 

Dey  was  dead  games  at  that.  While  dey  gets  d' 
collar,  not  one  of  'em  coughs  on  me,  an'  me  name  ain't 
never  in  it  from  start  to  finish.  Dey  was  game,  true 
pals  from  bell  to  bell,  an'  stayed  d'  distance. 

"  It  was  d'  bummest  finish,  all  d'  same,  for  what 
looked  like  d'  biggest  trick,  an'  d'  surest  big  money, 
that  I  ever  goes  near.  Youse  may  well  peel  your  peeps  ! 
If  it  wasn't  for  that  old  Irish  keener  an'  her  ghost 
stories,  in  less  than  ten  hours  more  we  wouldn't  have 
got  a  t'ing  but  complete  action  on  more'n  a  million 
plunks!  There  was  a  hay-mow  full  of  money  in  that 

bin! 
6 


*2  SANDBURRS 

*  That's  d'  last  round  an*  wind-up,  as  d'  pugs  puts  it. 
Me  gopher  an'  his  pals  is  handed  out  ten  spaces  each, 
an'  I  lose  me  kit  of  tools.  Take  it  over  all,  I'm  out 
some  four  t'ousand  dollars  on  d'  deal.  A  tidy  lump  of 
dough  to  be  done  out  of  be  a  priest,  a  p'liceman  an'  an 
old  Irish  boardin' boss!  D'  old  loidy  lands  wit'  bot' 
her  trilbys,  though;  d'  bank  chucks  her  a  bundle  of 
fly-paper  big  enough  to  stan'  for  all  her  needs  until  she 
croaks,  for  cuttin'  in  on  our  play,  see !  " 


THE  BETRAYAL 

THE  boys  had  resolved  on  revenge,  and  nothing 
could  turn  them  from  their  purpose.  The  trouble 
was  this  :  Some  one  not  otherwise  engaged  had  fed 
the  furnace  an  overshoe  which  it  did  not  need.  As 
incident  to  its  consumption  the  overshoe  had  filled  the 
building  with  an  odour  of  which  nothing  favourable 
could  be  said.  The  professor  afterwards,  in  denounc 
ing  the  author  of  the  outrage,  had  referred  to  it  as 
"  effluvia."  It  had  as  a  perfume  much  force  of  character, 
and  was  stronger  and  more  devastating  than  the  odour 
which  goes  with  an  egg  in  its  old  age,  when  it  has 
begun  to  hate  the  world  and  the  future  holds  nothing 
but  gloom. 

As  stated,  the  schoolhouse  reeked  and  reeled  with 
this  sublimated  overshoe.  It  all  pleased  the  boys  ex 
cessively.  They  made  as  much  as  possible  of  the 
odour  ;  they  coughed,  and  sneezed,  and  worried  the 
professor  by  holding  up  their  hands  one  after  the 
other  with  the  remark  : 

"  Teacher,  may  I  go  out  ?  " 

The  professor,  after  several  destructive  whiffs  of  the 
overshoe,  made  a  fiery  speech.  He  said  that  could  he 
once  locate  the  boy  who  lavished  this  overshoe  on 
mankind  in  a  gaseous  form,  that  boy's  person  would 
experience  a  rear-end  collision.  He  would  be  so  badly 
telescoped  that  weeks  would  elapse  before  the  boy 
could  regard  himself  as  being  in  old-time  form.  The 


84  SANDBURRS 

professor  said  the  boy  who  founded  the  overshoe  odour 
was  a  "  miscreant  "  and  a  "  vandal."  He  demanded 
his  name  of  the  boys  collectively  ;  and  failing  to  get 
it,  the  professor  said  they  were  all  miscreants  and 
vandals,  and  that  it  would  be  as  balm  to  his  spirits 
were  he  to  wade  in  and  larrup  the  entire  outfit. 

After  school  the  boys  held  a  meeting. 

Frank  Payne,  aged  fourteen,  the  boy  who  could  lick 
any  boy  in  school,  denounced  the  professor.  He  re 
ferred  to  the  fact  that  his  father  was  a  school  trustee  ; 
and  that  under  the  rules  the  professor  had  no  right  to 
bestow  upon  them  the  epithets  of  miscreants  and  van 
dals.  Frank  Payne  advised  that  they  whip  the  pro 
fessor  ;  who  must,  he  said,  while  a  large,  muscular 
man,  yield  to  mob  violence. 

The  proposition  to  whip  the  professor  was  carried 
unanimously  under  a  suspension  of  the  rules. 

In  the  ardour  of  this  crusade  for  their  rights  the  boys 
did  not  feel  as  if  they  could  await  the  slow  approach 
of  trouble  in  the  natural  way.  It  was  decided  by  them 
to  bring  matters  to  a  focus.  It  was  planned  to  have 
Tony  Sanford  stick  a  pin  in  John  Dayton.  That 
would  be  a  splendid  start !  John  Dayton,  thus  stuck, 
would  yell  ;  and  when  the  professor  asked  the  cause 
of  his  lamentations,  John  Dayton  would  point  to  Tony 
Sanford  as  his  assassin.  When  the  professor  laid  cor 
rective  hands  on  Tony  all  of  the  conspirators  were  to 
rush  upon  the  professor  and  give  him  such  a  rough- 
and-tumble  experience  that  succeeding  ages  would 
date  time  from  the  emeute.  The  boys  were  filled  with 
glee  ;  they  regarded  the  business,  so  they  said,  as  "  a 
pushover." 

The  hour  for  action  had  arrived. 


THE  BETRAYAL  85 

Tony  Sanford  had  no  pin.  But  Tony  was  a  fertile 
boy  ;  if  there  was  a  picket  off  Tony's  mental  fence  at 
all,  it  was  his  foresight.  Lacking  a  pin,  the  ingenious 
Tony  stuck  the  small  blade  of  his  knife  into  John 
Dayton.  The  victim  howled  like  a  dog  at  night. 

"  Please,  sir,  Tony  Sanford's  stabbed  me,"  was  John 
Dayton's  explanation  of  his  shrieks. 

Tony  Sanford  was  paraded  for  punishment.  The 
cold-blooded  enormity  of  the  crime  seemed  to  strike 
the  professor  dumb.  He  did  not  know  how  to  take 
hold  of  the  situation.  But  Tony  pursued  a  course 
which  not  only  invited  but  suggested  action.  As 
Tony  approached,  he  dealt  the  professor  an  uppercut 
in  the  bread-basket,  and  with  the  cry,  "  Come  on, 
boys  !  "  closed  doughtily  with  the  foe. 

The  boys  beheld  the  deeds  of  the  intrepid  Tony ; 
they  heard  his  cry  and  knew  it  for  their  cue.  Never 
theless,  notwithstanding,  not  a  boy  moved.  They  sat 
in  their  seats  and  gazed  fixedly  at  Tony  and  the  pro 
fessor.  With  the  call  of  Tony  to  his  fellow-conspira 
tors  the  professor  saw  it  all. 

"  Tony  Sanford,"  quoth  the  professor,  "  we  will 
adjourn  to  the  library.  When  I  get  through,  you  will 
be  of  no  further  use  to  science." 

The  door  closed  on  Tony  Sanford,  and  a  professor 
weighing  21 1  pounds.  The  sounds  which  came  well 
ing  from  the  library  showed  that  some  strong,  emotion 
al  work  was  being  done  within.  Tony  and  the  pro 
fessor  sounded  at  times  like  a  curlew  at  night,  and 
anon  like  unto  a  man  falling  downstairs  with  a  stove. 
Tony  Sanford  said  afterward  that  he  would  never 
again  attach  himself  to  a  plot  which  did  not  show 
two  green  lights  on  the  rear  platform  of  its  caboose. 


FOILED 

(Bv  THE  OFFICE  BOY) 
CHAPTER  I 

"DARLING,  I  fear  that  man!  The  cruel  guy  can 
from  his  place  as  umpire  do  you  up." 

It  was  Gwendolin  O'Toole  who  spoke.  She  was  a 
beautiful  blonde  angel,  and  as  she  clung  to  her  lover, 
Marty  O'Malley,  they  were  a  picture  from  which  a 
painter  would  have  drawn  an  inspiration. 

"  Take  courage,  love  !  "  said  Marty  O'Malley  ten 
derly  ;  "  I'm  too  swift  for  the  duck." 

"  I  know,  dearest,"  murmured  the  fair  Gwendolin, 
"  but  think  what's  up  on  the  game  !  Me  brother,  you 
know  him  well !  the  rooter  prince,  the  bleachers'  un 
crowned  king  !  he  is  the  guardian  of  me  vast  estates. 
If  I  do  not  marry  as  he  directs,  me  lands  and  houses 
go  to  found  an  asylum  for  decrepit  ball  tossers.  And 
to-day  me  brother  Godfrey  swore  by  the  Banshee  of 
the  O'Tooles  that  me  hand  should  belong  to  the  man 
who  made  the  best  average  in  to-morrow's  game.  Can 
you  win  me,  love?  " 

"  I  will  win  you  or  break  the  bat !  "  said  Marty 
O'Malley,  as  he  folded  his  dear  one  in  his  arms. 

CHAPTER  II 

"  WHEN  that  villain,  O'Malley,  goes  to  bat  to-morrow, 
pitch   the   ball  ten    feet    over  his  head.     No  matter 
where  it  goes  I'll  call  a  *  strike.' " 
86 


FOILED  87 

It  was  Dennis  Mulcahey  who  spoke;  the  man  most 
feared  by  Gwendolin  O'Toole.  He  was  to  be  the 
next  day's  umpire,  and  as  he  considered  how  securely 
his  rival  was  in  his  grasp,  he  laughed  the  laugh  of  a 
fiend. 

Dennis  Mulcahey,  too,  loved  the  fair  Gwendolin, 
but  the  dear  girl  scorned  his  addresses.  His  heart 
was  bitter  ;  he  would  be  revenged  on  his  rival. 

"You've  got  it  in  for  the  mug!"  replied  Terry 
Devine,  to  whom  Dennis  Mulcahey  had  spoken. 
Devine  was  the  pitcher  of  the  opposition,  and  like 
many  of  his  class,  a  low,  murdering  scoundrel.  "  But, 
say !  Denny,  if  you  wants  to  do  the  sucker,  why  don't 
youse  give  him  a  poke  in  d'  face?  See  !  " 

"  Such  suggestions  are  veriest  guff,"  retorted  Dennis 
Mulcahey.  "  Do  as  I  bid  you,  caitiff,  an'  presume 
not  to  give  d'  hunch  to  such  as  I !  A  wild  pitch  is 
what  I  want  whenever  Marty  O'Malley  steps  to  the 
plate.  I'll  do  the  rest." 

"  I'll  t'row  d'  pigskin  over  d'  grand  stand,"  said 
Terry  Devine  as  he  and  his  fellow-plotter  walked  away. 

As  the  conspirators  drifted  into  the  darkness  a  dim 
form  arose  from  behind  a  shrub.  It  was  Marty 
O'Malley. 

"  Ah  !  I'll  fool  you  yet  !  "  he  hissed  between  his 
clinched  teeth,  and  turning  in  the  opposite  direction 
he  was  soon  swallowed  by  the  darkness. 

CHAPTER  III 

"  YOU'LL  not  fail  me,  Jack  !  "  said  Marty  O'Malley 
to  Jack,  the  barkeeper  of  the  Fielders'  Rest. 

"  Not  on  your  sweater  !  "  said  Jack,     "  Leave  it  to 


38  SANDBURRS 

me.  Ii  that  snoozer  pitches  this  afternoon  I  hopes  d' 
boss'll  put  in  a  cash-register !  " 

Marty  O'Malley  hastened  to  the  side  of  his  love. 
Jack,  the  faithful  barkeeper,  went  on  cleaning  his 
glasses. 

"  That  hobo,  Devine,  will  be  here  in  a  minute," 
said  Jack  at  last,  "  an'  I  must  organise  for  him." 

Jack  took  a  shell  glass  and  dipped  it  in  the  tank 
behind  the  bar.  Taking  his  cigar  from  between  his 
finely  chiselled  lips,  he  blew  the  smoke  into  the  moist 
ened  interior  of  the  glass.  This  he  did  several  times. 

"  I'll  smoke  a  glass  on  d'  stiff,"  said  Jack  softly. 
"  It's  better  than  a  knockout  drop." 

It  was  a  moment  later  when  Terry  Devine  came  in. 
With  a  gleam  of  almost  human  intelligence  in-  his  eye 
Jack,  the  barkeeper,  set  up  the  smoked  glass.  Terry 
Devine  tossed  off  the  fiery  potation,  staggered  to  a 
chair,  and  sat  there  glaring.  A  moment  later  his  head 
fell  on  the  table,  while  a  stertorous  snore  proclaimed 
him  unconscious. 

"  That  fetched  d'  sucker,"  murmured  Jack,  the  bar 
keeper,  and  he  went  on  cleaning  his  glasses.  "  His 
light's  gone  out  for  fourteen  hours,  an'  he  don't  make 
no  wild  pitches  at  Marty  O'Malley  to-day,  see !  " 

CHAPTER   IV 

TEN  thousand  people  gathered  to  witness  the  last 
great  contest  between  the  Shamrocks  and  the  Shanty- 
towns. 

Gwendolin  O'Toole,  pale  but  resolute,  occupied  her 
accustomed  seat  in  the  grand  stand.  Far  away,  and 
high  above  the  tumult  of  the  bleachers  she  heard  the 


FOILED  89 

hoarse  shouts  of  her  brother,  Godfrey  OToole,  the 
bleachers'  king. 

"  Remember,  Gwendolin  !  "  he  had  said,  as  they 
parted  just  before  the  game,  "the  mug  who  makes 
the  best  average  to-day  wins  your  hand.  I've  sworn 
it,  and  the  word  of  an  O'Toole  is  never  broken." 

"  Make  it  the  best  fielding  average,  oh,  me  brother  !  " 
pleaded  Gwendolin,  while  the  tears  welled  to  her 
glorious  eyes. 

"  Never !  "  retorted  Godfrey  O'Toole,  with  a  scowl ; 
"  I'm  on  to  your  curves !  You  want  to  give  Marty 
O'Malley  a  better  show.  But  if  the  butter-fingered 
muffer  wants  you,  he  must  not  only  win  you  with  his 
fielding,  but  with  the  stick." 


CHAPTER  V 

TERRY  DEVINE  wasn't  in  the  box  for  the  Shanty- 
towns.  With  his  head  on  the  seven-up  table,  he  snored 
on,  watched  over  by  the  faithful  barboy  Jack.  He 
still  yielded  to  smoked  glass  and  gave  no  sign  of  life. 

"  Curse  him  !  "  growled  Umpire  Mulcahey  hoarsely 
beneath  his  breath  "has  he  t'run  me  down?  If  I 
thought  so,  the  worl.d  is  not  wide  enough  to  save  him 
from  me  vengeance." 

And  the  change  pitcher  took  the  box  for  the  Shanty- 
towns. 

Marty  O'Malley,  the  great  catcher  of  the  Shamrocks, 
stepped  to  the  plate.  Dennis  Mulcahey  girded  up  his 
false  heart,  and  registered  a  black,  hellish  oath  to  call 
everything  a  strike. 

"  Never !    never   shall  he    win  Gwendolin  OToole 


90  SANDBURRS 

while  I  am  umpire  !  "  he  whispered,  and  his  face  was 
dark  as  a  cloud. 

It  was  the  last  word  that  issued  from  the  clam-shell 
of  Dennis  Mulcahey  for  many  a  long  and  bitter  hour; 
the  last  crack  he  made.  Just  as  he  offered  his  bluff,  the 
first  ball  was  pitched.  It  was  as  wild  and  high  as  a 
bird,  as  most  first  balls  are.  But  Marty  O'Malley  was 
ready.  He,  too,  had  been  plotting  ;  he  would  fight 
Satan  with  fire  ! 

As  the  ball  sped  by,  far  above  his  head,  Marty 
O'Malley  leaped  twenty  feet  in  the  air.  As  he  did  this 
he  swung  his  unerring  timber.  Just  as  he  had  planned, 
the  flying,  whizzing  sphere  struck  the  under  side  of 
his  bat,  and  glancing  downward  with  fearful  force, 
went  crashing  into  the  dark,  malignant  visage  of  Den 
nis  Mulcahey,  upturned  to  mark  its  flight.  The  fragile 
mask  was  broken  ;  the  features  were  crushed  into  com 
plete  confusion  with  the  awful  inveteracy  of  the  ball. 

Dennis  Mulcahey  fell  as  one  dead.  As  he  was  borne 
away  another  umpire  was  sent  to  his  post.  Marty 
O'Malley  bent  a  glance  of  intelligence  on  the  change 
pitcher  of  the  Shantytowns,  who  had  taken  the  place 
of  the  miscreant  Dennis,  and  whispered  loud  enough 
to  reach  from  plate  to  box : 

"  Now,  gimme  a  fair  ball !  " 

CHAPTER   VI 

AND  so  the  day  was  won  ;  the  Shamrocks  basted 
the  Shantytowns  by  the  score  of  1$  to  2.  As  for 
Marty  O'Malley,  his  score  stood: 

Ab.  R.  H.  Po.  A.  E. 
O'Malley,  c 4      4     4     10    14    O 


FOILED  91 

No  such  record  had  ever  been  made  on  the  grounds. 
With  four  times  at  bat,  Marty  O'Malley  did  so  well, 
withal,  that  he  scored  a  base  hit,  two  three-baggers 
and  a  home-run. 

That  night  Marty  O'Malley  wedded  the  rich  and 
beautiful  Gwendolin  O'Toole.  Jack,  the  faithful  bar- 
boy  of  the  Fielders'  Rest,  officiated  as  groomsman. 
Godfrey  O'Toole,  haughty  and  proud,  was  yet  a  square 
sport,  and  gave  the  bride  away. 

The  rich  notes  of  the  wedding  bells,  welling  and 
swelling,  drifted  into  the  open  windows  of  the  Charity 
Hospital,  and  smote  on  the  ears  of  Dennis  Mulcahey, 
where  he  lay  with  his  face. 

"  Curse  'em  !  "  he  moaned. 

Then  came  a  horrible  rattle  in  his  throat,  and  the 
guilty  spirit  of  Dennis  Mulcahey  passed  away. 

Death  caught  him  off  his  base. 


POLITICS 

(ANNALS  OF  THE  BEND) 

"NIXIE!  I  ain't  did  nothin',  but  all  de  same  I'm 
feelin'  like  a  mut,  see  !  " 

Chucky  was  displeased  with  some  chapter  in  his 
recent  past.  I  could  tell  as  much  by  the  shifty,  dep 
recatory  way  in  which  he  twiddled  and  riddled  with 
his  beer-stein. 

"  This  is  d'  way  it  all  happens,"  exclaimed  Chucky. 
"  Over  be  Washin'ton  Square  there's  an  old  soak,  an' 
he's  out  to  go  into  pol'tics— wants  to  hold  office; 
Congress,  I  t'inks,  is  what  this  gezeybo  is  after.  Any 
how  he's  nutty  to  hold  office. 

"Of  course,  I  figgers  that  a  guy  who  wants  to  hold 
office  is  a  sucker;  for  meself,  I'd  sooner  hold  a  baby. 
Still,  when  some  such  duck  comes  chasm'  into  pol'tics, 
I'm  out  for  his  dough  like  all  d'  rest  of  d'  gang. 

"  So  I  goes  an'  gets  nex'  to  this  mucker  an'  jollies 
his  game.  I  tells  him  all  he's  got  to  do  is  to  fix  his 
lamps  on  d'  perch  that  pleases  him,  blow  in  his  stuff 
an'  me  push'll  toin  loose,  an'  we'll  win  out  d'  whole 
box  of  tricks  in  a  walk,  see ! 

"That's  all  right;  d'  Washin'ton  Square  duck  is  of 
d'  same  views.  An'  some  of  it  ain't  no  foolish  talk  at 
that.  I'm  dead  strong  wit'  d'  Dagoes,  an'  d'  push 
about  d'  Bend,  an'  me  old  chum — if  he  starts — is  goin* 
to  get  a  run  for  his  money. 

"  It  ain't  this,  however,  what  wilts  me  d'  way  you 
92 


POLITICS  93 

sees  to-night.  It's  that  I'm  'shamed,  see !  In  d'  foist 
place,  I'm  bashful.  That's  straight  stuff;  I'm  so 
bashful  that  if  I'm  in  some  other  geezer's  joint — par- 
tic'ler  if  he's  a  high  roller  an'  t'rowin'  on  social  lugs, 
like  this  Washin'ton  Square  party — I  feels  like  creep- 
in'  under  d'  door  mat. 

"  D'  other  night  this  can'date  for  office  says,  says 
he,  *  Chucky,  I'm  goin  to  begin  my  money-boinin'  be 
givin'  a  dinner  over  be  me  house,  an*  youse  are  in  it, 
see!  in  it  wit'  bot'  feet.' 

" '  Be  I  comin'  to  chew  at  your  joint?'  I  asts ;  'is 
that  d'  bright  idee  ?  ' 

"  '  That's  d'  stuff,'  he  says  ;  *  youse  are  comin'  to  eat 
wit'  me  an*  me  friends.  An'  you  can  gamble  your 
socks  me  friends  is  a  flossy  bunch  at  that.' 

"  I  says  I'll  assemble  wit'  'em. 

"Nit,  I  ain't  stuck  on  d' play.  I'd  sooner  eat 'be 
meself.  But  if  I'm  goin'  to  catch  up  wit'  his  Whiskers 
an'  sep'rate  him  from  some  of  d'  long  green,  I've  got 
to  stay  clost  to  his  game,  see ! 

"  It's  at  d'  table  me  troubles  begins.  I  does  d' 
social  double-shuffle  in  d'  hall  all  right.  D'  crush 
parts  to  let  me  t'rough,  an'  I  woiks  me  way  up  to  me 
can'date — who,  of  course,  is  d'  main  hobo,  bein'  he's 
d'  architect  of  d'  blowout — an' gives  him  d' joyful  mit ; 
what  you  calls  d'  glad  hand. 

"'Glad  to  see  youse,  Chucky,'  says  d' old  mark. 
'Tummas,  steer  Chucky  to  his  stool  be  d'  table.' 

"It's  at  d'  table  I'm  rattled,  wit'  all  d'  glasses  an* 
dishes  an'  d'  lights  overhead.  But  I'm  cooney  all  d' 
same.  I  ain't  onto  d'  graft  meself,  but  I  puts  it  up 
on  d'  quiet  I'll  pick  out  some  student  who  knows  d' 
ropes  an*  string  me  bets  wit'  his. 


94  SANDBURRS 

"As  I  sets  there,  I  flashes  me  lamps  along  d'  line, 
an'  sort  o'  stacks  up  d'  blokes,  for  to  pick  out  d'  fly 
guys  from  d'  lobsters,  see  ! 

"  Over  'cross  'd  table  I  lights  on  an  old  stiff  who 
looks  like  he  could  teach  d'  game.  T'inks  I  to  meself, 
'  There's  a  mut  who's  been  t'rough  d'  mill  many  a  time 
an'  oft.  All  I  got  to  do  now  is  to  pipe  his  play  an' 
never  let  him  out  o'  me  sight.  If  I  follows  his  smoke, 
I'll  finish  in  d'  front  somewheres,  an*  none  of  these 
mugs'll  tumble  to  me  ignorance.' 

"  Say  !  on  d'  level !  there  was  no  flies  on  that  for  a 
scheme,  was  there?  An'  it  would  have  been  all  right, 
me  system  would  ;  only  this  old  galoot  I  goes  nex'  to 
don't  have  no  more  sense  than  me.  Why  !  he  was  d' 
ass  of  d'  evening !  d'  prize  pig  of  d'  play,  he  was ! 
Let  me  tell  youse. 

"  D'  foist  move,  he  spreads  a  little  table  clot'  across 
his  legs.  I  ain't  missin'  no  tricks,  so  I  gets  me  hooks 
on  me  own  little  table  clot'  and  spreads  it  over  me 
legs  also. 

" '  This  is  good  enough  for  a  dog,  I  t'inks,  an'  easy 
money  !  Be  keepin'  me  eye  on  Mr.  Goodplayer  over 
there  I  can  do  this  stunt  all  right.' 

"  An'  so  I  does.     I  never  lets  him  lose  me  onct. 

"  '  How  be  youse  makin'  it,  Chucky  ? '  shouts  me 
can'date  from  up  be  d'  end  of  d'  room. 

"  '  Out  o'  sight  !  '  I  says.  '  I'm  winner  from  d' 
jump  ;  I'm  on  velvet.' 

"'Play  ball!'  me  can'date  shouts  back  to  encour 
age  me,  I  suppose  because  he's  dead  on  I  ain't  no  Foxy 
Quiller  at  d'  racket  we're  at ;  '  play  ball,  Chucky,  an' 
don't  let  'em  fan  youse  out.  When  you  can't  bat  d' 
ball,  bunt  it,'  says  me  can'date. 


POLITICS  95 

"  Of  course  gettin'  d'  gay  face  that  way  from  d'  boss 
gives  me  confidence,  an'  as  a  result  it  ain't  two  seconts 
before  I'm  all  but  caught  off  me  base.  It's  in  d'  soup 
innin's  an'  d'  flunk  slams  down  d'  consomme  in  a  tea 
cup.  It's  a  new  one  on  me  for  fair!  I  don't  at  d' 
time  have  me  lamps  on  d'  mark  'cross  d'  way,  who  I'm 
understudyin',  bein'  busy,  as  I  says,  slingin'  d'  bit  of 
guff  I  tells  of  wit'  me  can'date.  An'  bein'  off  me 
guard,  I  takes  d'  soup  for  tea  or  some  such  dope,  an' 
is  layin'  out  to  sugar  it. 

"  *  Stan'  your  hand ! '  says  a  dub  who's  organised  be 
me  right  elbow,  an'  who's  feedin'  his  face  wit'  both 
mits ;  '  set  a  brake  ! '  he  says.  *  That's  soup.  Did 
youse  t'ink  it  was  booze?' 

"  After  that  I  fastens  to  d'  old  skate  across  d'  table 
to  note  where  he's  at  wit'  his  game.  He's  doin'  his 
toin  on  d'  consomme  wit'  a  spoon,  so  I  gets  a  spoon  in 
me  hooks,  goes  to  mixin'  it  up  wit*  d'  soup  as  fast  as 
ever,  an'  follows  him  out. 

"An'  say  !  I'm  feelin'  dead  grateful  to  this  snoozer, 
see!  He  was  d'  ugliest  mug  I  ever  meets,  at  that. 
Say  !  he  was  d'  limit  for  looks,  an*  don't  youse  doubt 
it.  As  I  sizes  him  up  I  was  t'inking  to  meself,  what  a 
wonder  he  is!  Honest!  if  I  was  a  lion  an'  that  old 
party  comes  into  me  cage,  do  youse  know  what  I'd 
do?  Nit;  you  don't.  Well,  I'll  tip  it  to  youse 
straight.  If  any  such  lookin*  monster  showed  up  in 
me  cage,  if  d'  door  was  open,  I'd  get  out.  That's  on 
d'  square,  I'd  simply  give  him  d'  cage  an'  go  an' 
board  in  d'  woods.  An'  if  d'  door  was  locked  an'  I 
couldn't  get  out,  I'd  t'row  a  fit  from  d'  scare.  Oh  ! 
he  was  a  dream  !  He's  one  of  them  t'ings  a  mark  sees 
after  he's  been  hittin'  it  up  wit'  d'  lush  for  a  mont'. 


96  SANDBURRS 

"  '  But  simply  because  he  looks  like  a  murderer,'  I 
reflects,  '  that's  no  reason  why  he  ain't  wise.  He 
knows  his  way  t'rough  this  dinner  like  a  p'liceman 
does  his  beat,  an'  I'll  go  wit'  him.' 

"  It's  a  go  !  When  he  plays  a  fork,  I  plays  a  fork ; 
when  he  boards  a  shave,  I'm  only  a  neck  behint  him. 
When  he  shifts  his  brush  an'  tucks  his  little  table  clot' 
over  his  t'ree-sheet,  I'm  wit'  him.  I  plays  nex'  to  him 
from  soda  to  hock. 

"An'  every  secont  I'm  gettin'  more  confidence  in 
this  gezebo,  an'  more  an'  more  stuck  on  meself.  On 
d'  dead !  I  was  farmer  enough  to  t'ink  I'd  t'ank  him 
for  bein'  me  guide  before  I  shook  d'  push  an'  quit. 
Say!  he'd  be  a  nice  old  dub  for  me  to  be  t'ankin'  d' 
way  it  toins  out.  I  was  a  good  t'ing  to  follow  him, 
I  don't  t'ink. 

"  If  I  was  onto  it  early  that  me  old  friend  across  d' 
table  had  w'eels  an'  was  wrong  in  his  cocoa,  I  wouldn't 
have  felt  so  bad,  see!  But  I'd  been  playin'  him  to 
win,  an'  followin'  his  lead  for  two  hours.  An'  I  was 
so  sure  I  was  trottin'  in  front,  that  all  d'  time  I 
was  jollyin'  meself,  an'  pattin'  meself  on  d'  back,  an' 
tellin'  meself  I  was  a  corker  to  be  gettin'  an  even  run 
wit'  d'  400  d'  way  I  was,  d'  foist  time  I  enter  s'ciety. 
An'  of  course,  lettin'  me  nut  swell  that  way  makes  it 
all  d'  harder  when  I  gets  d'  jolt. 

"  It's  at  d'  finish.  I'd  gone  down  d'  line  wit'  this 
sucker,  when  one  of  them  waiter  touts,  who's  cappin' 
d'  play  for  d'  kitchen,  shoves  a  bowl  of  water  in  front 
of  him.  Now,  what  do  youse  t'ink  he  does  ?  Drink 
it?  Nit;  that's  what  he  ought  to  have  done.  I'm 
Dutch  if  he  don't  up  an'  sink  his  hooks  in  it.  An' 
then  he  swabs  off  his  mits  wit*  d'  little  table  clot'. 


POLITICS  9; 

Say !  an*  to  t'ink  I'd  been  takin'  his  steer  t'rough  d' 
whole  racket !     It  makes  me  tired  to  tell  it ! 

"  *  Wat  th'  'ell ! '  I  says  to  meself  ;  '  I've  been  on  a 
dead  one  from  d'  start.  This  stiff  is  a  bigger  mut  than 
I  be.' 

"  It  let  me  out.  Me  heart  was  broke,  an'  I  ain't  had 
d'  gall  to  hunt  up  me  can'date  since.  Nit;  I  don't 
stay  to  say  no  *  good-byes.'  I'm  too  bashful,  as  1  tells 
you  at  d'  beginnin'.  As  it  is,  I  cops  a  sneak  on  d' 
door,  side-steps  d'  outfit,  an'  screws  me  nut.  The  can' 
date  sees  me  oozin'  out,  however,  an'  sends  a  chaser 
after  me  in  d'  shape  of  one  of  his  flunks.  He  wants 
me  to  come  back.  He  says  me  can'date  wants  to  pre 
sent  me  to  his  friends.  I  couldn't  stan'  for  it  d'  way  I 
felt,  an'  as  d'  flunk  shows  fight  an'  is  goin'  to  take  me 
back  be  force,  I  soaks  him  one  an'  comes  away.  On  d' 
dead  !  I  feels  as  'shamed  of  d'  entire  racket  as  if  some 
sucker  had  pushed  in  me  face." 
7 


ESSLEIN  GAMES 

FOR  generations  the  Essleins  have  been  fanciers  of 
game  chickens.  The  name  "  Esslein  "  for  a  century 
and  a  half  has  had  honourable  place  among  Virginians. 
In  his  day,  they,  the  Essleins,  were  as  well  known  as 
Thomas  Jefferson.  As  this  is  written  they  have  equal 
Old  Dominion  fame  with  either  the  Conways,  the 
Fairfaxes,  the  McCarthys  or  the  Lees.  And  all  be 
cause  of  the  purity  and  staunch  worth  of  the  "  Esslein 
Games." 

It  was  the  broad  Esslein  boast  that  no  man  had 
chickens  of  such  feather  or  strain.  And  this  was  ac 
cepted  popularly  as  truth.  The  Essleins  never  loaned, 
sold,  nor  gave  away  egg  or  chicken.  No  one  could 
produce  the  counterpart  of  the  Esslein  chickens  for 
looks  or  warlike  heart ;  no  one  ever  won  a  main  from 
the  Essleins.  So  at  last  it  was  agreed  generally,  that 
no  one  save  the  Essleins  did  have  the  "  Esslein 
Games ; "  and  this  belief  went  unchallenged  while 
years  added  themselves  to  years. 

But  there  came  a  day  when  a  certain  one  named 
Smith,  who  dwelt  in  the  region  round  about  the  Ess 
leins,  and  who  also  had  note  for  his  righting  cocks, 
whispered  to  a  neighbour  that  he,  as  well  as  the  Essleins, 
had  the  "  Esslein  Games."  The  whisper  spread  into 
talk,  and  the  talk  into  general  clamour ;  everywhere  one 
heard  that  the  long  monopoly  was  broken,  and  that 
Smith  had  the  '  Esslein  Games." 


ESSLEIN  GAMES  99 

This  startling  story  had  half  confirmation  by  visitors 
to  the  Smith  walks.  Undoubtedly  Smith  had  chickens, 
feather  for  feather,  twins  of  the  famous  Essleins.  That 
much  at  least  was  true.  The  rest  of  the  question 
might  have  evidence  pro  or  con  some  day,  should 
Smith  and  the  Essleins  make  a  main. 

But  this  great  day  seemed  slow,  uncertain  of  ap 
proach.  Smith  would  not  divulge  the  genesis  of  his 
fowls,  nor  tell  how  he  came  to  be  possessed  of  the 
Esslein  chickens.  Smith  confined  himself  to  the  bluff 
claim : 

"  I've  got  'em,  and  there  they  be." 

Beyond  this  Smith  wouldn't  go.  On  their  parts,  the 
Essleins,  at  first  maintained  themselves  in  silent  dig 
nity.  They  said  nothing;  treating  the  Smith  claim  as 
beneath  contempt. 

As  man  after  man,  however,  went  over  to  the  Smith 
side,  the  Essleins  so  far  unbent  from  their  pose  of 
tongue-tied  hauteur  as  to  call  Smith  "  a  liar  !  " 

Still  this  failed  of  full  effect ;  the  talk  went  on,  the 
subject  was  in  mighty  dispute,  and  the  Essleins  at 
last,  to  settle  discussion,  defied  Smith  to  a  main. 

But  Smith  refused  to  fight  his  chickens  against  the 
Essleins.  Smith  said  it  was  conscience,  but  failed 
to  go  into  details.  This  was  damaging.  Meanwhile, 
however,  as  Smith  challenged  the  world  of  fighting 
cocks,  and,  moreover,  won  every  match  he  ever  made, 
and  barred  only  the  Essleins  in  his  campaigning,  there 
arose,  in  spite  of  his  steady  objection  to  fighting  the 
Essleins,  many  who  believed  Smith  and  stood  forth  for 
it  that  Smith  did  have  the  far-famed  "  Esslein  Games." 

It  is  to  the  credit  of  the  Essleins  that  they  did  all 
that  was  in  their  power  to  bring  Smith  and  his  chick- 


ioo  SANDBURRS 

ens  to  the  battlefield.  They  offered  him  every  induce 
ment  known  in  chicken  war,  and  tendered  him  a  duel 
for  his  cocks  to  be  fought  for  anything  from  love  to 
money. 

Firm  to  the  last,  Smith  wouldn't  have  it ;  and  so, 
discouraged,  the  Essleins,  failing  action,  nailed  as  it 
were  their  gauntlet  to  Smith's  hen-coop  door,  and  thus 
the  business  stood  for  months. 

It  came  about  one  day  that  a  stranger  from  Balti 
more  accepted  Smith's  standing  challenge  to  fight  any 
body  save  the  Essleins.  The  stranger  proposed  and 
made  a  match  with  Smith  to  fight  him  nine  battles, 
$500  on  each  couple  'and  $2,500  on  the  general  main. 
And  then  the  news  went  'round. 

There  was  high  excitement  in  chicken  circles.  The 
day  came  and  the  sides  of  the  pit  were  crowded.  Smith 
was  in  his  corner  with  his  handler,  getting  the  first  of 
his  champions  ready  for  the  struggle.  As  Smith  was 
holding  the  chicken  for  the  handler  to  fasten  on  the 
gaffs — drop-socket,  they  were,  and  keen  as  little  scime- 
tars — he  chanced  to  glance  across  the  pit. 

There  stood  John,  chief  of  the  Essleins. 

Smith  saw  it  in  a  moment ;  he  had  been  trapped. 
But  it  was  too  late.  The  match  was  made  and  the 
money  was  up  ;  there  was  no  chance  to  retrace,  even  if 
Smith  had  wanted.  As  a  fact  to  his  glory,  however, 
he  had  no  desire  so  to  do. 

"  We're  up  against  the  Essleins,  Bill,"  Smith  said  to 
his  trainer  ;  "  and  it's  all  right.  I  didn't  want  to  make 
a  match  with  them,  because  I  got  their  chickens  queer. 
And  if  I'd  fought  them  and  won,  I'd  felt  like  I'd 
got  their  money  queer;  and  that  I  couldn't  stand. 
But  this  is  different.  We'll  fight  the  Essleins  now 


ESSLEIN  GAMES  -101 

they're  here,  and  'if  they  can  win  over  me,  they're 
welcome." 

Then  the  main  began.  The  first  battle  was  short, 
sharp,  deadly  ;  and  glorious  for  Smith.  The  Esslein 
chicken  got  a  stab  in  the  heart  the  first  buckle.  Smith 
smiled  as  his  handler  pulled  his  chicken's  gaff  out  of  its 
dead  victim,  and  set  it  free. 

The  Smith  entries  won  the  second  and  third  battle. 
Triumph  rode  on  the  glance  of  Smith,  while  the 
Esslein  brows  were  bleak  and  dark. 

"  Smith's  got  the  *  Esslein  Games,'  sure  !  "  was  whis 
pered  about  the  pit. 

In  the  fourth  and  fifth  battles  the  tide  ran  the  other 
way,  the  Esslein  chickens  killing  their  rivals.  Each 
battle,  for  that  matter,  had  so  far  been  to  the  death. 

The  sixth  battle  went  to  Smith  and  the  seventh  to 
the  Essleins.  Thus  it  stood  four  for  Smith  to  three 
for  the  Essleins,  just  before  the  eighth  battle.  It 
didn't  look  as  if  Smith  could  lose. 

It  was  at  this  juncture  so  hopeful  for  the  coops  of 
Smith,  that  Smith  did  a  foolish  thing.  Yielding  to 
the  appeals  of  his  trainer,  Smith  let  that  worthy  man 
put  up  a  chicken  of  his  own  to  face  the  Esslein  entry 
for  the  eighth  duel.  It  was  a  gorgeous  shawl-neck  that 
Smith's  trainer  produced  ;  eye  bright  as  a  diamond,  and 
beak  like  some  arrow-head  of  jet.  His  legs  looked  as 
strong  as  a  hod-carrier's.  It  was  a  horse  to  a  hen,  so 
everybody  said,  that  the  Esslein  chicken, — which  was 
but  a  small,  indifferent  bird, — would  lose  its  life,  the 
battle,  and  the  main  at  one  and  the  same  time. 

Popular  conjecture  was  wrong,  as  popular  conjecture 
often  is.  The  Esslein  chicken  locked  both  gaffs  through 
the  shawl-neck's  brain  in  the  second  buckle. 


.1.0*  SANDBURRS 

"  That  teaches  me  a  lesson,"  said  Smith.  "  Hereafter 
should  an  angel  come  down  from  heaven  and  beg  me 
to  let  him  fight  a  chicken  in  a  main  of  mine,  I'll  turn 
him  down !  " 

It  was  the  ninth  battle  and  the  score  stood  four  for 
Smith  and  four  for  the  Essleins.  As  the  slim  gaffs, 
grey  and  cruelly  sharp,  were  being  placed  on  the 
feathered  gladiators  for  the  last  deadly  joust,  Smith 
called  across  the  pit  to  John  Esslein : 

"  Esslein,"  he  said,  "  no  matter  how  this  last  battle 
may  fall,  I  reckon  I've  convinced  you  and  everybody 
looking  on,  that,  just  as  I  said,  I've  got  the  *  Esslein 
Games.'  To  show  you  that  I  know  I  have,  and  give 
you  a  chance  for  revenge  as  well,  I'll  make  this  last 
fight  for  $10,000  a  cock.  The  main  so  far  has  been  an 
even  break,  and  neither  of  us  has  won  or  lost.  The 
last  battle  decides  the  tie  and  wins  or  loses  me  $3,000. 
To  make  it  interesting,  I'll  raise  the  risk  both  ways,  if 
you're  willing,  just  $7,000,  and  call  the  bundle  ten. 
And,"  concluded  Smith,  as  he  glanced  around  the  pit, 
"  there  isn't  a  sport  here  but  will  believe  in  his  heart, 
when  I,  a  poor  man,  offer  to  make  this  last  battle  one 
for  $20,000,  that  I  know  that,  even  if  I'm  against,  I'm 
at  least  behind  an  *  Esslein  Game.'  ' 

"  Make  it  for  $10,000  a  cock,  then !  "  said  John 
Esslein  bitterly.  "  Whether  I  win  or  lose  main  and 
money  too,  I've  already  lost  much  more  than  both 
to-day." 

Then  the  fight  began.  The  chickens  were  big  and 
strong  and  quick  and  as  dauntlessly  savage  as  ospreys. 
And  feather  and  size,  eye,  and  beak  and  leg,  they  were 
the  absolute  counterparts  of  each  other. 

For   ten    minutes    the    battle    raged.     Either    the 


"THE    CHICKENS    WERE    HKi    AND    STRONG    AND    QUICK."— />«<•*    JO2, 


ESSLEIN  GAMES  103 

spurred  fencers  had  more  of  luck  or  more  of  caution 
than  the  others.  Buckle  after  buckle  occurred,  and 
after  ten  minutes'  fighting  the  two  enemies  still  faced 
each  other  with  angry,  bead-like  eyes,  and  without  so 
much  as  a  drop  of  blood  spilled. 

They  fronted  each  other  balefully  while  one  might 
count  seven.  Their  beaks  travelled  up  and  down  as 
evenly  as  if  moved  by  the  same  impulse.  Then  they 
clashed  together. 

This  time,  as  they  drew  apart,  Smith's  chicken  fell 
upon  its  side,  its  right  leg  cut  and  broken  well  up  to 
ward  the  hip,  with  the  bone  pushing  upward  and  out 
ward  through  the  slash  of  the  gaff. 

"  Get  your  chicken  and  wring  its  neck,  Smith,"  said 
someone.  "  It's  all  over!  " 

"  Let  them  fight !  "  responded  Smith.  "  It's  not 
'  all  over  ! '  That  chicken  of  Esslein's  has  a  long  row 
to  hoe  to  kill  that  bird  of  mine." 

Hardly  were  the  words  uttered  when  a  strange  chance 
befell.  Smith's  prostrate  cripple  reached  up  as  its  foe 
approached,  seized  it  with  its  beak,  and  struggled  to 
its  one  good  foot.  In  the  buckle  that  followed,  the 
one  gaff  by  some  sleight  of  the  cripple  slashed  the 
Esslein  chicken  over  the  eyes  and  blinded  it.  The 
muscles  closed  down  and  covered  the  eyes.  Otherwise 
the  Esslein  cock  was  unhurt. 

Then  began  a  long,  fierce,  yet  feeble  fight.  One 
chicken  couldn't  stand  and  the  other  couldn't  see.  The 
Smith  chicken  would  lie  on  its  side  and  watch  its  rival 
with  eyes  blazing  hate,  while  the  Esslein  chicken,  blind 
as  a  bat,  would  grope  for  him.  When  he  came  within 
reach  of  Smith's  chicken,  that  indomitable  bird  would 
seize  him  with  his  bill ;  there  would  be  some  weak, 


104  SANDBURRS 

aimless  clashing,  and  again   they'd   be  separated,  the 
blind  one  to  grope,  the  cripple  to  lie  and  wait. 

The  war  limped  on  in  this  fashion  for  almost  two 
hours.  But  the  end  came.  As  the  Esslein  chicken 
strayed  blindly  within  reach,  its  enemy  got  a  strong, 
sudden  grip,  and  in  the  collision  that  was  the  sequel, 
the  Esslein  chicken  had  its  head  half  slashed  from  its 
body.  It  staggered  a  step  with  blood  spurting,  tottered 
and  fell  dead. 

Smith,  said  never  a  word,  but  from  first  to  last  his 
face  had  been  cold  and  grimly  indifferent.  His  heart 
was  fire,  but  no  one  could  see  it  in  his  face.  Evidently 
the  man  was  as  clean-strain  as  his  chickens. 

That's  all  there  is  to  the  story.  What  became  of  the 
victor  with  the  broken  leg?  Smith  looked  him  over, 
decided  it  was  "  no  use,"  and  wrung  his  dauntless  neck. 
The  great  main  was  over.  Smith  had  won,  everybody 
knew,  as  Smith  went  home  that  night,  that  he  was 
$10,000  better  off,  and  that  fast  and  sure,  beyond  de 
nial  or  doubt,  Smith  had  the  "  Esslein  Games." 


THE  PAINFUL  ERROR 

THIS  is  a  tale  of  school  life.  Fred  Avery,  Charles 
Roy  and  Benjamin  Clayton  are  scholars  in  the  same 
school.  The  name  of  this  seminary  is  withheld  by 
particular  request.  Suffice  it  that  all  three  of  these 
youths  come  and  go  and  have  their  bright  young 
beings  within  the  neighbourhood  of  Newark.  The  age 
of  each  is  thirteen  years.  Thirteen  is  a  sinister  num 
ber.  They  are  all  jocund,  merry-hearted  boys,  arid 
put  in  many  hours  each  day  thinking  up  a  good  time. 

One  day  during  the  noon  hour  the  school  building 
was  all  but  deserted.  Charles  Roy,  Fred  Avery  and 
Benjamin  Clayton,  however,  were  there.  They  had 
formed  plans  for  their  entertainment  which  demanded 
the  desertion  of  the  school  building  as  chronicled. 
The  coast  being  fairly  clear,  the  conspiring  three  pro 
ceeded  to  one  of  the  upper  recitation  rooms  of  the 
building.  This  room  did  not  appertain  to  the  par 
ticular  school  favoured  by  the  attendance  of  Fred  Avery, 
Charles  Roy  and  Benjamin  Clayton  as  scholars.  This, 
however,  only  added  zest  to  the  adventure. 

The  room  to  which  our  heroes  repaired  was  the 
recitation  stamping  ground  of  a  high  school  class  in 
physiology.  The  better  to  know  anatomy,  the  class 
was  furnished  with  the  skeleton  of  some  dead  gentle 
man,  all  nicely  hung  and  arranged  with  wires  so  as  to 
look  as  much  like  former  days  as  possible.  During 
class  hours  the  framework  of  the  dead  person  stood  in 

105 


io6  SANDBURRS 

a  corner  of  the  room,  and  the  students  learned  things 
from  it  that  were  useful  to  know.  When  off  duty  it 
reposed  in  a  box. 

Fred  Avery,  Charles  Roy  and  Benjamin  Clayton 
had  heard  of  deceased.  Their  purpose  this  noon  was 
to  call  on  him.  They  gained  entrance  to  the  room  by 
the  burglarious  method  of  picking  the  lock.  Once 
within  they  took  the  skeleton  from  its  box  home  and 
stood  it  in  the  window  where  the  public  might  revel  in 
the  spectacle.  To  take  off  any  grimness  of  effect  they 
fixed  a  cob  pipe  in  its  bony  jaws  and  clothed  the  skull 
in  a  bad  hat,  pulled  much  over  the  left  eye,  the  whole 
conferring  upon  the  remains  a  highly  gala,  joyous  air 
indeed. 

Then  Charles  Roy,  Fred  Avery  and  Benjamin 
Clayton  withdrew  from  the  scene. 

The  skeleton  in  the  window  was  very  popular. 
Countless  folk  had  assembled  to  gaze  upon  it  at  the 
end  of  the  first  ten  minutes,  and  armies  were  on  their 
way. 

The  principal  of  the  school  as  he  came  from  lunch 
saw  it  and  was  much  vexed.  He  put  the  skeleton  back 
in  its  box,  and  the  hydra-headed  public  slowly  dis 
persed. 

Fred  Avery,  Charles  Roy  and  Benjamin  Clayton 
secretly  gloated  over  the  transaction  in  detail  and 
entirety.  But  the  principal  began  to  make  inquiries  ; 
the  avenger  was  on  the  track  of  the  criminal  three. 
Some  big  girls  had  witnessed  the  felonious  entrance 
of  the  guilty  ones  into  the  den  of  the  skeleton.  The 
big  girls  imparted  their  knowledge  to  the  principal, 
hunting  these  felons  of  the  school.  But  the  big  girls 
slipped  a  cog  on  one  important  point.  They  did  not 


THE  PAINFUL  ERROR  107 

know  the  recreant  Benjamin  Clayton.  After  arguing 
it  all  over  they  decided  that  "  the  third  boy"  was  a 
very  innocent  young  person  named  Albert  Weed,  and 
so  gave  in  the  names  of  the  guerillas  as  : 

"  Charles  Roy,  Fred  Avery  and  Albert  Weed  !  " 

That  afternoon  the  indignant  principal  demanded 
that  Fred  Avery,  Charles  Roy  and  Albert  Weed 
attend  him  to  the  study.  They  were  there  charged 
with  the  atrocity  of  the  skeleton  in  the  window. 
Charles  Roy  and  Fred  Avery  confessed  and  asked  for 
mercy.  Albert  Weed  denied  having  art,  part  or  lot  in 
the  outrage.  The  principal  was  much  shocked  at  his 
prompt  depravity  in  trying  to  lie  himself  clear.  The 
principal,  in  order  to  be  exactly  just,  and  evenly  fair, 
craved  to  know  of  Charles  Roy  and  Fred  Avery  : 

"  Was  Albert  Weed  with  you  ?  " 

"  Please,  sir,  we  would  rather  be  excused  from  an 
swering,"  they  said,  hanging  down  their  heads. 

Then  the  principal  knew  that  Albert  Weed  was 
guilty.  Fred  Avery  and  Charles  Roy  were  forgiven, 
and  were  complimented  on  their  straightforward, 
manly  course  in  refusing  to  tell  a  lie  to  shield  them 
selves. 

"  As  for  you,  Albert,"  observed  the  principal,  as  he 
seized  Albert  Weed  by  the  top  of  his  head,  "  as  for 
you,  Albert,  I  do  not  punish  you  for  being  roguish 

with  the  skeleton,  but  for  telling  me  a  lie." 

*  •*  #  #  #  * 

The  principal  thereupon  lambasted  the  daylights  out 
of  Albert  Weed. 


THE  RAT 
(ANNALS  OF  THE  BEND) 

"  BE  d'  cops  at  d'  Central  office  fly  ?  "  Chucky  buried 
his  face  in  his  tankard  in  a  polite  effort  to  hide  his 
contempt  for  the  question.  "  Be  dey  fly  !  Say  !  make 
no  mistake !  d'  Central  Office  mugs  is  as  soon  a  set  of 
geezers  as  ever  looked  over  d'  hill.  Dey're  d'  swiftest 
ever.  On  d'  level !  I  t'ink  t'ree  out  of  every  four  of 
them  gezebos  could  loin  to  play  d'  pianny  in  one 
lesson. 

"  Just  to  put  youse  onto  how  quick  dey  be,  an'  to 
give  you  some  idee  of  their  curves,  let  me  tell  you 
what  dey  does  to  Billy  d'  Rat. 

"Youse  never  chases  up  on  d'  Rat?  Nit!  Well, 
Cully,  you  don't  miss  much.  Yes,  d'  Rat's  a  crook  all 
right.  He's  a  nipper,  but  a  dead  queer  one,  see  !  He 
always  woiks  alone,  an'  his  lay  is  diamonds. 

"  *  I  don't  want  no  pals  or  stalls  in  mine,'  says  d'  Rat. 
1 1  can  toin  all  needful  tricks  be  me  lonesome.  Stalls  is  a 
give-away,  see  !  Let  some  sucker  holler,  an'  let  one  of 
your  mob  get  pinched,  an'  what  then  ?  Why,  about 
d'  time  he's  stood  up  an'  given  d'  secont  degree  be  Mc- 
Clusky,  he  coughs.  That's  it  !  he  squeals,  an'  d'  nex' 
dash  out  o'  d'  box  youse  don't  get  a  t'ingbut  d'  collar. 
Nine  out  o'  ten  of  d'  good  people  doin'  time  to-day, 
was  t'rown  into  soak  be  some  pal  knockin'.  I  passes 

all  that  up  !     I  goes  it  alone !     If  I   nips  a  rock  it's 
108 


THE  RAT  109 

mine ;  I  don't  split  out  no  bits  for  no  snoozer,  see ! 
I'm  d'  entire  woiks,  an'  if  I  stumbles  an'  falls  be  d' 
wayside,  it's  me's  to  blame.  Which  last  makes  it 
easier  to  stan'  for.' 

"  That's  d'  way  d'  Rat  lays  out  d'  ground  for  me 
one  day/'  continued  Chucky,  "  an'  he  ain't  slingin'  no 
guff  at  that.  It's  d'  way  he  always  woiked. 

"  But  to  skin  back  to  d'  Central  Office  cops  an'  how 
fly  dey  be  :  One  of  d'  Rat's  favourite  stunts  is  dampin' 
a  diamond.  What's  that  ?  Youse  '11  catch  on  as  me 
tale  unfolds,  as  d'  nov'lists  puts  it. 

"  Here's  how  d'  Rat  would  graft.  Foist  he'd  rub  up 
his  two  lamps  wit'  pepper  till  dey  looks  red  an'  out  of 
line.  When  he'd  got  t'rough  doin'  d'  pepper  act  to 
'em,  d'  Rat's  peeps,  for  fair !  would  do  to  understudy 
two  fried  eggs. 

"  Then  d'  Rat  would  pull  on  a  w'ite  wig,  like  he's 
some  old  stuff ;  an'  wit'  that  an'  some  black  goggles 
over  his  peeps,  his  own  Rag  wouldn't  have  known  him. 
To  t'row  'em  down  for  sure,  d'  Rat  would  wear  a  cork- 
sole  shoe, — one  of  these  6-inch  soles, — like  he's  got 
a  game  trilby.  Then  when  he's  all  made  up  in  black 
togs,  d'  Rat  is  ready. 

"  Bein'  organised,  d'  Rat  hobbles  into  a  cab  an' 
drives  to  a  diamond  shop.  D'  racket  is  this :  Of 
course  it  takes  a  bit  of  dough,  but  that's  no  drawback, 
for  d'  Rat  is  always  on  velvet  an'  dead  strong.  As  I 
say,  d'  play  is  this  :  D'  Rat  being  well  dressed  an' 
fitted  up  wit'  his  cork-soles,  his  goggles  an'  his  wig, 
comes  hobblin'  into  d'  diamond  joint  an'  gives  d'  im 
pression  he's  some  rich  old  mark  who  ain't  got  a  t'ing 
but  money,  an'  that  he's  out  to  boin  a  small  bundle  be 
way  of  matchin'  a  spark  which  he  has  wit'  him  in  his 


no  SANDBURRS 

mit.  D'  Rat  fills  cT  diamond  man  up  wit'  a  yarn,  how 
he's  goin'  to  saw  a  brace  of  ear-rings  off  on  his  daughter 
an'  needs  d'  secont  rock,  see  !  Of  course  it's  a  dead 
case  of  string.  D'  Rat  ain't  got  no  kid,  an'  would  be  d' 
last  bloke  to  go  festoonin'  her  wit'  diamonds  if  he  had. 

"  Naturally,  d'  mut  who  owns  d'  store  is  out  an' 
eager  to  do  business.  D'  Rat  won't  let  d'  diamond 
man  do  d'  matchin' ;  not  on  your  life!  he's  goin'  to 
mate  them  sparks  himself.  So  he  gives  d'  stiff  wit' 
d'  store  d'  tip  to  spread  a  handful  of  stones,  say  about 
d'  size  of  d'  one  he's  holdin'  in  his  hooks — which 
mebby  is  a  2-carat — on  some  black  velvet  for  him  to 
pick  from.  D'  diamond  party  ain't  lookin'  for  no  t'row 
down  from  an  old  sore-eyed,  cork-sole  hobo  like  d' 
Rat,  so  he  lays  out  a  sprinklin'  of  stones.  D'  Rat, 
who  all  this  time  is  starring  his  bum  lamps,  an'  tellin' 
how  bad  an'  weak  dey  be,  an'  how  he  can  hardly  see, 
gets  his  map  down  clost  to  d'  lay-out  of  sparks,  so  as 
he  can  get  onto  em  an'  make  d'  match. 

"  It's  now  d'  touch  comes  in.  When  d'  Rat's  got 
his  smeller  right  among  d'  diamonds,  he  sticks  out  his 
tongue,  quick  like  a  toad  for  a  honey-bee,  an'  nails  a 
gem.  That's  what  dey  calls  '  dampin'  a  diamond.' 
Yes,  mebby  if  there's  so  many  of  'em  laid  out,  he  t'inks 
d'  mark  behint  d'  show  case  will  stan'  for  it  wit'out 
missin'  'em,  d'  Rat  gets  two.  Then  d'  Rat  goes  on 
jollyin*  an*  chinnin'  wit'  d'  sparks  in  his  face ;  an' 
mebby  for  a  finish  an'  to  put  a  cover  on  d'  play,  he 
buys  one  an'  screws  his  nut. 

"  Wit'  his  cab,  as  I  says,  d'  Rat  is  miles  away,  an' 
has  time  to  shed  his  wig  an'  goggles  an'  cork-sole  be 
fore  d'  guy  wit'  d'  diamonds  tumbles  to  it  he's  been 
done.  That's  how  d'  Rat  gets  in  his  woik.  Now  I'll 


THE  RAT  in 

tell  youse  how  cT  Central  Office  people  t'run  d'  harpoon 
into  him. 

"  One  day  d'  Rat  makes  a  play  an'  gets  two  butes. 
He  tucks  'em  away  in  back  of  his  teet',  an'  is  just 
raisin'  his  nut  to  say  somethin',  when  d'  store  duck 
grabs  him  an'  raises  a  roar.  Two  or  t'ree  cloiks  an'  a 
cop  off  d'  street  comes  sprintin'  up,  an'  away  goes  d' 
Rat  to  d'  coop. 

"  Wit'  d'  foist  yell  of  d'  sucker  who  makes  d'  front 
for  d'  store — naw,  he  ain't  d'  owner,  he's  one  of  d' 
cloiks — d'  Rat  goes  clean  outside  of  d'  sparks  at  a  gulp  ; 
swallows  'em;  that's  what  he  does.  There  bein'  no 
diamond  toined  up,  an'  no  one  at  headquarters  bein' 
onto  him — for  he's  always  laid  low  an'  kept  out  of 
sight  of  d'  p'lice — d'  Rat  makes  sure  dey'll  have  to 
t'run  him  loose. 

"  But  d'  boss  cop  is  pretty  cooney.  He  riggers  it  all 
out,  how  d'  Rat's  a  crook,  an'  how  he's  eat  d'  diamonds, 
just  as  I  says.  So  he  cons  d'  Rat  an'  t'rows  a  dream 
into  him.  He  tells  him  there'll  be  no  trouble,  but 
he'll  have  to  keep  him  for  an  hour  or  two  until  his 
'  sooperior  off  cer,'  as  he  calls  him,  gets  there.  He's  d' 
main  squeeze,  this  p'lice  dub  dey're  waitin'  for,  an'  as 
soon  as  he  shows  up  an'  goes  over  d'  play,  d'  Rat  can 
screw  out. 

"  That's  d'  sort  of  song  an'  dance  d'  high  cop  gives 
d'  Rat ;  an'  say !  I'm  a  lobster  if  d'  Rat  don't  fall  to 
it,  at  that.  On  d'  dead  !  this  p'lice  duck  is  so  smooth 
an'  flossy  d'  Rat  believes  him. 

"Just  for  appearances  d'  Rat  registers  a  big  kick; 
an*  then — for  dey  don't  lock  him  up  at  all — he  plants 
himself  in  a  easy  chair  to  do  a  toin  of  wait.  D'  Rat 
couldn't  have  broke  an'  run  for  it,  even  if  he'd  took  d' 


ii2  SANDBURRS 

scare,  for  d'  cops  is  all  over  d'  place.  But  he  ain't 
lookin'  for  d'  woist  of  it  nohow.  He  t'inks  it's  all  as 
d'  boss  cop  has  told  him  ;  he'll  wait  there  an  hour  or 
two  for  d'  main  guy  an'  then  dey'll  cut  him  free. 

*'  After  a  half  hour  d'  boss  cop  says :  '  It's  no  use 
you  bein'  hungry,  me  frien',  an'  as  I'm  goin'  to  chew, 
come  wit'  me  an'  feed  your  face.  D'  treat's  on  me, 
anyhow,  bein'  obliged  to  detain  a  respect'ble  old 
mucker  like  you.  So  come  along.' 

"  Wit'  that  d'  Rat  goes  along  wit'  d'  boss  cop,  an'  all 
d'  time  he's  t'inkin'  what  a  Stoughton  bottle  d'  cop  is. 

"  It's  nex'  door,  d'  chop-house  is.  D'  cop  an'  d'  Rat 
sets  down  an'  breasts  up  to  d'  table.  Dey  gives  d' 
orders  all  right,  all  right.  But  say  !  d'  grub  never  gets 
to  'em.  D'  nex'  move  after  d'  orders,  d'  Rat,  who's 
got  a  t'irst  on  from  d'  worry  of  bein'  lagged,  takes  a 
drink  out  of  a  glass. 

"  *  I'm  poisoned  !  '  yells  d'  Rat  as  he  slams  down  d' 
tumbler;  '  somebody's  doped  me  !  '  an'  wit'  that  d'  Rat 
toins  in,  t'rows  a  fit,  an'  is  seasick  to  d'  limit 

"  That's  what  that  boss  cop  does.  He  sends  over 
an'  doctors  a  glass  while  d'  Rat  is  settin'  in  his  office 
waitin',  an*  then  gives  him  a  bluff  about  chewin'  an' 
steers  d'  Rat  ag'inst  it.  Say  !  it  was  a  dandy  play.  D' 
dope  or  whatever  it  was,  toins  me  poor  friend  d'  Rat 
inside  out,  like  an  old  woman's  pocket. 

"  An'  them  sparks  is  recovered. 

"  Yes,  d'  Rat  does  a  stretch.  As  d'  judge  sentences 
him,  d'  Rat  gives  d'  cop  who  downs  him  his  mit. 
1  You're  a  wonder,'  says  d'  Rat  to  d'  cop  ; '  there's  no  flies 
baskin'  in  d'  sun  on  you.  When  I  reflects  on  d'  way 
you  sneaks  d'  chaser  after  them  sparks,  an'  lands  'em,  I'm 
bound  to  say  d'  Central  Office  mugs  are  onto  their  job."' 


CHEYENNE  BILL 

(WOLFVILLE) 

CHEYENNE  BILL  is  out  of  luck.  Ordinarily  his  vaga 
ries  are  not  regarded  in  Wolfville.  His  occasional  ap 
pearance  in  its  single  street  in  a  voluntary  of  nice  feats 
of  horsemanship,  coupled  with  an  exhibition  of  pistol 
shooting,  in  which  old  tomato  cans  and  passe*  beer 
bottles  perform  as  targets,  has  hitherto  excited  no 
more  baleful  sentiment  in  the  Wolfville  bosom  than 
disgust. 

"  Shootin'  up  the  town  a  whole  lot ! "  is  the  name 
for  this  engaging  pastime,  as  given  by  Cheyenne  Bill, 
and  up  to  date  the  exercise  has  passed  unchallenged. 

But  to-day  it  is  different.  Camps  like  individuals 
have  moods,  now  light,  now  dark  ;  and  so  it  is  with 
Wolfville.  At  this  time  Wolfville  is  experiencing  a 
wave  of  virtue.  This  may  have  come  spontaneously 
from  those  seeds  of  order  which,  after  all,  dwell  sturd 
ily  in  the  Wolfville  breast.  It  may  have  been  excited 
by  the  presence  of  a  pale  party  of  Eastern  tourists, 
just  now  abiding  at  the  O.  K.  Hotel ;  persons  whom 
the  rather  sanguine  sentiment  of  Wolfville  credits  with 
meditating  an  investment  of  treasure  in  her  rocks  and 
rills.  But  whatever  the  reason,  Wolfville  virtue  is 
aroused  ;  a  condition  of  the  public  mind  which  makes 
it  a  bad  day  for  Cheyenne  Bill. 

The  angry  sun  smites  hotly  in  the  deserted  causeway 
8  113 


ii4  SANDBURRS 

of  Wolfville.  The  public  is  within  doors.  The  Red 
Light  Saloon  is  thriving  mightily.  Those  games 
which  generally  engross  public  thought  are  drowsy 
enough  ;  but  the  counter  whereat  the  citizen  of  Wolf 
ville  gathers  with  his  peers  in  absorption  of  the  incau 
tious  compounds  of  the  place,  is  fairly  sloppy  from  ex 
cess  of  trade.  Notwithstanding  the  torrid  heat  this 
need  not  sound  strangely ;  Wolfville  leaning  is  strongly 
homoeopathic.  "  Similia  similibus  curantur"  says 
Wolfville ;  and  when  it  is  blazing  hot,  drinks  whiskey. 

But  to-day  there  is  further  reason  for  this  consump 
tion.  Wolfville  is  excited,  and  this  provokes  a  thirst. 
Cheyenne  Bill,  rendering  himself  prisoner  to  Jack 
Moore,  rescue  or  no  rescue,  has  by  order  of  that  saga 
cious  body  been  conveyed  by  his  captor  before  the 
vigilance  committee,  and  is  about  to  be  tried  for  his 
life. 

What  was  Cheyenne  Bill's  immediate  crime  ?  Cer 
tainly  not  a  grave  one.  Ten  days  before  it  would  have 
hardly  earned  a  comment.  But  now  in  its  spasm  of 
virtue,  and  sensitive  in  its  memories  of  the  erratic 
courses  of  Cheyenne  Bill  aforetime,  Wolfville  has  grim 
ly  taken  possession  of  that  volatile  gentleman  for 
punishment.  He  has  killed  a  Chinaman.  Here  is  the 
story : 

"Yere  comes  that  prairie  dog,  Cheyenne  Bill,  all 
spraddled  out,"  says  Dave  Tutt. 

Dave  Tutt  is  peering  from  the  window  of  the  Red 
Light,  to  which  lattice  he  has  been  carried  by  the  noise 
of  hoofs.  There  is  a  sense  of  injury  disclosed  in  Dave 
Tutt's  tone,  born  of  the  awakened  virtue  of  Wolfville. 

"  It  looks  like  this  camp  never  can  assoome  no  airs," 
remarks  Cherokee  Hall  in  a  distempered  way,  "  but 


"EXPRESSING    GLADSOME    AM)    ECSTATIC    WHOOPS." Page    1 1$. 


CHEYENNE  BILL  115 

this  yere  miser'ble  Cheyenne  comes  chargin'  up  to 
queer  it." 

As  he  speaks,  that  offending  personage,  unconscious 
of  the  great  change  in  Wolfville  morals,  sweeps  up  the 
street,  expressing  gladsome  and  ecstatic  whoops,  and 
whirling  his  pistol  on  his  forefinger  like  a  thing  of  light. 
One  of  the  tourists  stands  in  the  door  of  the  hotel 
smoking  a  pipe  in  short,  brief  puffs  of  astonishment, 
and  reviews  the  amazing 'performance.  Cheyenne  Bill 
at  once  and  abruptly  halts.  Gazing  for  a  disgruntled 
moment  on  the  man  from  the  East,  he  takes  the  pipe 
from  its  owner's  amazed  mouth  and  places  it  in  his  own. 

lt  Smokin'  of  pipes,"  he  vouchsafes  in  condemnatory 
explanation,  *'  is  onelegant  an'  degrading  an'  don't  you 
do  it  no  more  in  my  presence.  I'm  mighty  sensitive 
that  a-way  about  pipes,  an'  I  don't  aim  to  tolerate  'em 
none  whatever." 

This  solution  of  his  motives  seems  satisfactory  to 
Cheyenne  Bill.  He  sits  puffing  and  gazing  at  the 
tourist,  while  the  latter  stands  dumbly  staring,  with  a 
morsel  of  the  ravished  meerschaum  still  between  his  lips. 

What  further  might  have  followed  in  the  way  of  ora 
tory  or  overt  acts  cannot  be  stated,  for  the  thoughts  of 
the  guileless  Cheyenne  suddenly  receive  a  new  direction. 
A  Chinaman,  voluminously  robed,  emerges  from  the 
New  York  store,  whither  he  has  been  drawn  by  dint  of 
soap. 

"  Whatever  is  this  Mongol  doin'  in  camp,  I'd  like  for 
to  know?"  inquires  Cheyenne  Bill  disdainfully.  "I 
shore  leaves  orders  when  I'm  yere  last,  for  the  immejit 
removal  of  all  sech.  I  wouldn't  mind  it,  but  with 
strangers  visitin'  Wolfville  this  a-way,  it  plumb  morti 
fies  me  to  death." 


u6  SANDBURRS 

"  Oh  well !  "  he  continues  in  tones  of  weary,  bitter 
reflection,  "  I'm  the  only  public-sperited  gent  in  this 
yere  outfit,  so  all  reforms  falls  nacheral  to  me.  Still,  I 
plays  my  hand  !  I'm  simply  a  pore,  lonely  white,  but 
jest  the  same,  I  makes  an  example  of  this  speciment 
of  a  sudsmonger  to  let  'em  know  whatever  a  white  man 
is,  anyhow." 

Then  comes  the  short,  emphatic  utterance  of  a  six- 
shooter.  A  puff  of  smoke  lifts  and  vanishes  in  the  hot 
air,  and  the  next  census  will  be  short  one  Asiatic. 

In  a  moment  arrives  a  brief  order  from  Enright,  the 
chief  of  the  vigilance  committee,  to  Jack  Moore.  The 
last-named  official  proffers  a  Winchester  and  a  request 
to  surrender  simultaneously,  and  Cheyenne  Bill,  real 
izing  fate,  at  once  accedes. 

"  Of  course,  gents,"  says  Enright,  apologetically,  as 
he  convenes  the  committee  in  the  Red  Light  bar ;  "  I 
don't  say  this  Cheyenne  is  held  for  beefin'  the  China 
man  sole  an'  alone.  The  fact  is,  he's  been  havin'  a 
mighty  sight  too  gay  a  time  of  late,  an'  so  I  thinks  it's 
a  good,  safe  play,  bein'  as  it's  a  hot  day  an'  we  has  the 
time,  to  sorter  call  the  committee  together  an'  ask  its 
views,  whether  we  better  hang  this  yere  Cheyenne  yet 
or  not?" 

"  Mr.  Pres'dent,"  responds  Dave  Tutt,  "  if  I'm  in 
order,  an'  to  get  the  feelin'  of  the  meetin'  to  flowin* 
smooth,  I  moves  we  takes  this  Cheyenne  an'  proceeds 
with  his  immolation.  I  ain't  basin'  it  on  nothin'  in 
partic'lar,  but  lettin'  her  slide  as  fulfillin'  a  long-felt 
want." 

"  Do  I  note  any  remarks  ?  "  asks  Enright.  "  If  not, 
I  takes  Mr.  Tutt's  very  excellent  motion  as  the  census 
of  this  meetin',  an*  it's  hang  she  is." 


CHEYENNE  BILL  117 

"  Not  intendin'  of  no  interruption/'  remarks  Texas 
Thompson,  "  I  wants  to  say  this  :  I'm  a  quiet  gent  my- 
se'f,  an'  nacheral  aims  to  keep  Wolfville  a  quiet  place 
likewise.  For  which-all  I  shorely  favours  a-hangin'  of 
Cheyenne.  He's  given  us  a  heap  of  trouble.  Like 
Tutt  I  don't  make  no  p'int  on  the  Chinaman  ;  we 
spares  the  Chink  too  easy.  But  this  Cheyenne  is  allers 
a-ridin',  an'  a-yellin',  an'  a-shootin'  up  this  camp  till 
I'm  plumb  tired  out.  So  I  says  let's  hang  him,  an' 
su'gests  as  a  eligible,  as  well  as  usual  nook  tharfore, 
the  windmill  back  of  the  dance  hall." 

"Yes,"  says  Enright,  "  the  windmill  is,  as  exper'ence 
has  showed,  amply  upholstered  for  sech  plays ;  an'  as 
delays  is  aggravating  the  committee  might  as  well  go 
wanderin'  over  now,  an'  get  this  yere  ceremony  off  its 
mind." 

"  See  yere,  Mr.  Pres'dent ! "  interrupts  Cheyenne 
Bill  in  tones  of  one  ill-used,  "  what  for  a  deal  is  this  I 
rises  to  ask  ?  " 

"  You  can  gamble  this  is  a  squar'  game,"  replies  En- 
right  confidently.  "  You're  entitled  to  your  say  when 
the  committee  is  done.  Jest  figure  out  what  kyards 
you  needs,  an*  we  deals  to  you  in  a  minute." 

"  I  solely  wants  to  know  if  my  voice  is  to  be  regarded 
in  this  yere  play,  that's  all,"  retorts  Cheyenne  Bill. 

"  Gents,"  says  Doc  Peets,  who  has  been  silently  lis 
tening.  "  I'm  with  you  on  this  hangin'.  These  East 
ern  sharps  is  here  in  our  midst.  It'll  impress  'em  that 
Wolfville  means  business,  an'  it's  a  good,  safe,  quiet 
place.  They'll  carry  reports  East  as  will  do  us  credit, 
an'  thar  you  be.  As  to  the  propriety  of  stringin'  Chey 
enne,  little  need  be  said.  If  the  Chinaman  ain't  enough, 
if  assaultin'  of  an  innocent  tenderfoot  ain't  enough, 


ii8  SANDBURRS 

you  can  bet  he's  done  plenty  besides  as  merits  a  lariat. 
He  wouldn't  deny  it  himse'f  if  you  asks  him." 

There  is  a  silence  succeeding  the  rather  spirited 
address  of  Doc  Peets,  on  whose  judgment  Wolfville 
has  been  taught  to  lean.  At  last  Enright  breaks  it  by 
inquiring  of  Cheyenne  Bill  if  he  has  anything  to  offer. 

"  I  reckons  it's  your  play  now,  Cheyenne,"  he  says, 
"  so  come  a-runnin.  ' ' 

"  Why  !  "  urges  Cheyenne  Bill,  disgustedly,  "  these 
proceedin's  is  ornery  an'  makes  me  sick.  I  shore 
objects  to  this  hangin'  ;,an'  all  for  a  measly  Chinaman 
too  !  This  yere  Wolfville  outfit  is  gettin'  a  mighty 
sight  too  stylish  for  me.  It's  growin'  that  per-dad- 
binged-'tic'lar  it  can't  take  its  reg'lar  drinks,  an' " 

"  Stop  right  thar  ! "  says  Enright,  with  dignity, 
rapping  a  shoe-box  with  his  six-shooter  ;  "  don't  you 
cuss  the  chair  none,  'cause  the  chair  won't  have  it. 
It's  parliamentary  law,  if  any  gent  cusses  the  chair  he's 
out  of  order,  same  as  it's  law  that  all  chips  on  the  floor 
goes  to  the  house.  When  a  gent's  out  of  order  once, 
that  settles  it.  He  can't  talk  no  more  that  meetin'. 
Seein'  we're  aimin'  to  eliminate  you,  we  won't  claim 
nothin'  on  you  this  time.  But  be  careful  how  you 
come  trackin'  'round  ag'in,  an'  don't  fret  us  !  Sabc  ? 
Don't  you-all  go  an'  fret  us  none  !  " 

"  I  ain't  allowin'  to  fret  you,"  retorts  Cheyenne  Bill. 
"  I  don't  have  to  fret  you.  What  I  says  is  this  :  I 
s'pose,  I  sees  fifty  gents  stretched  by  one  passel  of 
Stranglers  or  another  between  yere  an'  The  Dalls,  an' 
I  never  does  know  a  party  who's  roped  yet  on  account 
of  no  Chinaman.  An'  I  offers  a  side  bet  of  a  blue 
stack,  it  ain't  law  to  hang  people  on  account  of  downin' 
no  Chinaman.  But  you-alls  seems  sot  on  this,  an'  so  I 


CHEYENNE  BILL.  119 

tells  you  what  I'll  do.  I'm  a  plain  gent  an'  thar's  no 
filigree  work  on  me.  If  it's  all  congenial  to  the  boys 
yere  assembled — not  puttin'  it  on  the  grounds  of  no 
miser'ble  hop  slave,  but  jest  to  meet  public  sentiment 
half  way— I'll  gamble  my  life,  hang  or  no  hang,  on  the 
first  ace  turned  fiom  the  box,  Cherokee  deal.  Does  it 
go?" 

Wolfville  tastes  are  bizarre.  A  proposition  original 
and  new  finds  in  its  very  novelty  an  argument  for 
Wolfville  favour.  It  befalls,  therefore,  that  the  unusual 
offer  of  Cheyenne  Bill  to  stake  his  neck  on  a  turn  at 
faro  is  approvingly  criticised.  The  general  disposition 
agrees  to  it  ;  even  the  resolute  Enright  sees  no  reason 
to  object. 

"  Cheyenne,"  says  Enright,  "  we  don't  have  to  take 
this  chance,  an'  it's  a-makin*  of  a  bad  preceedent  which 
the  same  may  tangle  us  yereafter  ;  but  Wolfville  goes 
you  this  time,  an'  may  Heaven  have  mercy  on  your 
soul.  Cherokee,  turn  the  kyards  for  the  ace." 

"  Turn  squar',  Cherokee  !  "  remarks  Cheyenne  Bill 
with  an  air  of  interest.  "  You  wouldn't  go  to  sand  no 
deck,  nor  deal  two  kyards  at  a  clatter,  ag'in  perishin' 
flesh  an'  blood  ?" 

"  I  should  say,  no  !  "  replies  Cherokee.  "  I  wouldn't 
turn  queer  for  money,  an'  you  can  gamble  !  I  don't  do 
it  none  when  the  epeesode  comes  more  orider  the  head 
of  reelaxation." 

"  Which  the  same  bein'  satisfact'ry,"  says  Cheyenne 
Bill,  "  roll  your  game.  I'm  eager  for  action  ;  also,  I 
plays  it  open." 

"  I  dunno  !  "  observes  Dan  Boggs,  meditatively 
caressing  his  chin  ;  "  I'm  thinkin'  I'd  a-coppered  ; — 
that's  whatever !  " 


120  SANDBURRS 

The  deal  proceeds  in  silence,  and  as  may  happen  in 
that  interesting  sport  called  faro,  a  split  falls  out.  Two 
aces  appear  in  succession. 

"  Ace  lose,  ace  win ! "  says  Cherokee,  pausing. 
"  Whatever  be  we  goin'  to  do  now,  I'd  like  to  know?" 

There  is  a  pause. 

"  Gents,"  announces  Enright,  with  dignity,  "  a  split 
like  this  yere  creates  a  doubt  ;  an'  all  doubts  goes  to 
the  pris'ner,  same  as  a  maverick  goes  to  the  first  rider 
as  ties  it  down,  an'  runs  his  brand  onto  it.  This  camp 
of  Wolfville  abides  by  law,  an'  blow  though  it  be,  this 
yere  Cheyenne  Bill,  temp'rarily  at  least,  goes  free. 
However,  he  should  remember  this  yere  graze  an'  re 
strain  his  methods  yereafter.  Some  of  them  ways  of 
his  is  onhealthful,  an'  if  he's  wise  he'll  shorely  alter  his 
system  from  now  on." 

"  Which  the  camp  really  lose  !  an'  this  person  Bill 
goes  free  ! "  says  Jack  Moore,  dejectedly.  "  I  allers 
was  ag'in  faro  as  a  game.  Where  we-all  misses  it 
egreegious,  is  we  don't  play  him  freeze-out." 

"  Do  you  know,  Cherokee,"  whispers  Faro  Nell,  as 
her  eyes  turn  softly  to  that  personage  of  the  deal  box, 
"  I  don't  like  killin's  none!  I'd  sooner  Cheyenne  goes 
loose,  than  two  bonnets  from  Tucson !  " 

At  this  Cherokee  Hall  pinches  the  cheek  of  Faro 
Nell  with  a  delicate  accuracy  born  of  his  profession, 
and  smiles  approval. 


BLIGHTED 

(BY  THE  OFFICE  BOY) 

"  Is  it  hauteur,  or  is  it  a  maiden's  coyness  which 
causes  you  to  turn  away  your  head,  love?  " 

George  D'Orsey  stood  with  his  arm  about  the  wil 
lowy  form  of  Imogene  O'Sullivan.  The  scene  was  the 
ancestral  halls  of  the  O'Sullivans  in  the  fashionable 
north-west  quarter  of  Harlem.  George  D'Orsey  had 
asked  Imogene  O'Sullivan  to  be  his  bride.  That  was 
prior  to  the  remark  which  opened  our  story.  And  the 
dear  girl  softly  promised.  The  lovers  stood  there  in 
the  gloaming,  drinking  that  sweet  intoxication  which 
never  comes  but  once. 

"  It  isn't  hauteur,  George,"  replied  Imogene  O'Sul 
livan,  in  tones  like  far-off  church  bells.  "  But,  George  ! 
— don't  spurn  me — I  have  eaten  of  the  common  onion 
of  commerce,  and  my  breath,  it  is  so  freighted  with 
that  trenchant  vegetable,  it  would  take  the  nap  from 
your  collar  like  a  lawn  mower.  It  is  to  spare  the  man 
she  loves,  George,  which  causes  your  Imogene  to  hold 
her  head  aloof." 

"  Look  up,  darling !  "  and  George  D'Orsey's  tones 
held  a  glad  note  of  sympathy,  "  I,  too,  have  battened 
upon  onions." 

The  lovers  clung  to  each  other  like  bats  in  a  steeple. 

"  But  we'll  have  to  put  toe-weights  on  pa,  George  ; 
he'll  step  high  and  lively  when  he  hears  of  this  ! " 

121 


122  SANDBURRS 

The  lovers  were  seated  on  the  sofa,  now ;  the  prudent 
Imogene  was  taking  a  look  ahead. 

"  Doesn't  your  father  love  me,  pet?" 

"  I  don't  think  he  does,"  replied  the  fair  girl  ten 
derly.  "  I  begged  him  to  ask  you  to  dinner,  once, 
George  ;  that  was  on  your  last  trip.  He  said  he  would 
sooner  dine  with  a  wet  dog,  George,  and  refused.  From 
that  I  infer  his  opposition  to  our  union." 

"  We'll  make  a  monkey  of  him  yet!  "  and  George 
D'Orsey  hissed  the  words  through  his  set  teeth. 

"And  my  brother?" 

"  As  for  him,"  said  George  D'Orsey  (and  at  this  he 
began  pacing  the  room  like  a  lion),  "  as  for  your 
brother !  If  he  so  much  as  looks  slant-eyed  at  our 
happiness,  he  goes  into  the  soup  !  From  your  father 
I  would  bear  much ;  but  when  the  balance  of  the 
family  gets  in  on  the  game,  they  will  pay  for  their 
chips  in  advance." 

"  Can  we  not  leave  them,  George  ;  leave  them,  and 
fly  together  ?  " 

"Your  father  is  rich,  Imogene ;  that  is  a  sufficient 
answer."  There  was  a.  touch  of  sternness  in  George 
D'Orsey's  tones,  and  the  subject  of  flying  was  dropped. 

George  D'Orsey  lived  in  the  far-off  hamlet  of  Hobo- 
ken.  He  returned  to  his  home.  In  three  months  he 
was  to  wed  Imogene  O'Sullivan.  Benton  O'Sullivan 
had  a  fit  when  it  was  first  mentioned  to  him.  At  last 
he  gave  his  sullen  consent. 

"  I  had  planned  a  title  for  you,  Imogene."  That 
was  all  he  said. 

Three  months  have  elapsed.  It  was  dark  when  the 
ferryboat  came  to  a  panting  pause  in  its  slip.  George 
D'Orsey  picked  his  way  through  the  crowd  with  quick, 


BLIGHTED  123 

nervous  steps.  It  was  to  be  his  wedding-night.  He 
wondered  if  Imogene  would  meet  him  at  the  ferry. 
At  that  moment  he  beheld  her  dear  form  walking  just 
ahead. 

"  To-night,  dearest,  you  are  mine  forever !  "  whis 
pered  George  D'Orsey  tenderly,  seizing  the  sweet  young 
creature  by  her  arm. 

The  shrieks  which  emanated  from  the  young  woman 
could  have  defied  the  best  efforts  of  a  steam  siren. 
It  was  not  Imogene  O'Sullivan  ! 

The  police  bore  away  George  D'Orsey.  They  turned 
a  deaf  ear  to  his  explanations. 

"  You  make  me  weary  !  "  remarked  the  brutal  turn 
key,  to  whom  George  D'Orsey  told  his  tale. 

The  cell  door  slammed  ;  the  lock  clanked  ;  the  cruel 
key  grated  as  it  turned.  George  D'Orsey  was  a  pris 
oner.  The  charge  the  blotter  bore  against  him  was : 
"  Insulting  women  on  the  street." 

When  George  D'Orsey  was  once  more  alone,  he 
cursed  his  fate  as  if  his  heart  would  break.  At  last  he 
was  calm. 

"  Oh,  woman,  in  our  hour  of  ease, 
Uncertain,  coy,  and  hard  to  please ; 
But,  seen  too  oft,  familiar  with  her  face ; 
We  first  endure,  then  pity,  then  embrace  I  " 

The  Chateau  O'Sullivan  was  a  flare  and  a  glare  of 
lights.  The  rooms  were  jungles  of  palms  and  tropi 
cal  plants.  Flowers  were  everywhere,  while  the  air 
tottered  and  fainted  under  the  burden  of  their  per 
fume.  Imogene  O'Sullivan  never  looked  more  beau 
tiful. 

But  George  D'Orsey  did  not  come. 


I24  SANDBURRS 

Hour  followed  hour  into  the  past.  The  guests 
moved  uneasily  from  room  to  room.  The  preacher 
notified  Benton  O'Sullivan  that  he  was  ready. 

And  still  George  D'Orsey  came  not. 

"  The  villain  has  laid  down  on  us,  me  child !  "  whis 
pered  Benton  O'Sullivan  to  the  weeping  Imogene ; 
"  but  may  me  hopes  of  heaven  die  of  heart  failure  if  I 
have  not  me  revenge  !  No  man  shall  insult  the  proud 
house  of  O'Sullivan  and  get  away  with  it ;  not  with 
out  blood ! " 

The  guests  cheerfully  dispersed,  talking  the  most 
scandalous  things  in  whispers. 

Imogene  O'Sullivan's  dream  was  over. 

It  was  the  next  night.  George  D'Orsey  stood  on 
the  O'Sullivan  porch,  ringing  the  bell.  His  eye  and 
his  pocket  and  his  stomach  were  alike  wildly  vacant. 

"  Sic  him,  Bull !  Sic  him  !  "  said  Benton  O'Sullivan, 
bitterly. 

Bull  tore  several  specimens  from  the  quivering  frame 
of  George  D'Orsey,  who  vanished  in  the  darkness  with 
a  hoarse  cry. 


Years  afterward  George  D'Orsey  and  Imogene  O'Sul 
livan  met,  but  they  gave  each  other  a  cold,  meaningless 
stare. 


THE  SURETHING 
(Bv   THE    OFFICE    BOY) 

JOHN  SPARROWHAWK  was  a  sporting  man  of  the 
tribe  of  "  Surethings."  He  was  fond  of  what  has 
Cherry  Hill  description  as  a  "  cinch."  He  never  let 
any  lame,  slow  trick  get  away.  John  Sparrowhawk's 
specialty  was  racing ;  and  he  always  referred  to  this 
diversion  with  horses  as  his  "  long  suit."  He  kept 
several  rather  abrupt  animals  himself,  and  whenever  he 
found  a  man  whose  horse  wasn't  as  sudden  as  some  horse 
he  owned,  John  Sparrowhawk  would  lay  plots  for  that 
man,  and  ultimately  race  equines  with  him,  and  become 
master  of  such  sums  as  the  man  would  bet.  John 
Sparrowhawk  wandered  through  life  in  his  "  surething  " 
way  and  amassed  wealth.  He  was  rich,  and  was  wont 
to  boast  to  very  intimate  friends  : 

"  I  never  spent  a  dollar  which  I  honestly  earned." 

This  gave  John  Sparrowhawk  a  vast  deal  of  vogue, 
and  he  was  looked  up  to  and  revered  by  a  circle  which 
is  always  impressed  by  the  genius  of  one  who  can  rob 
his  fellow-worms,  and  do  it  according  to  law. 

It  befell  one  day  that  the  Brooklyn  Jockey  Club 
offered  a  purse  for  a  running  race,  but  demanded  five 
entries.  In  no  time  at  all,  three  horses  were  entered. 
Their  names  and  capacities  were  well  known  to  the 
sagacious  John  Sparrowhawk.  He  had  a  horse  that 
could  beat  them  all. 

125 


126  SANDBURRS 

"  He  would  run  by  them  like  they  was  tied  to  a 
post!"  remarked  John  Sparrowhawk,  in  a  chant  of 
ungrammatical  exultation. 

It  burst  upon  him  that  the  time  was  ripe  to  pillage 
somebody.  His  latest  larceny  was  ten  days  old,  and 
John  Sparrowhawk  oft  quoted  the  Bowery  poet  where 
he  said : 

"  Count  that  day  lost  whose  low,  descending  sun 
Sees  at  thy  hands  no  worthy  sucker  done." 

And  John  Sparrowhawk  did  business  that  way.  If 
he  might  only  get  another  horse  entered,  and  then 
complete  the  quintet  with  his  own,  John  Sparrowhawk 
would  possess  "a  snap."  Which  last  may  be  defined 
as  a  condition  of  affairs  much  famed  for  its  excellence. 

At  this  juncture  John  Sparrowhawk  had  the  idea  of 
his  career.  The  idea  made  "  a  great  hit  "  with  him. 
He  had  a  friend  who  had  a  horse,  which,  while  not  so 
swiftly  elusive  as  "  Tenbroeck  "  and  "  Spokane  "  in  their 
palmy  days,  could  defeat  such  things  as  district  mes 
senger  boys,  Fifth  avenue  stages,  and  many  other  en 
terprises  which  do  not  attain  meteoric  speed.  John 
Sparrowhawk's  horse  could  beat  it,  he  was  sure.  He 
would  explain  the  situation  to  his  friend,  and  cause  his 
snail  of  a  horse  to  be  entered.  This  would  fill  the 
race,  and  then  John  Sparrowhawk's  horse  would  win 
"  hands  down,"  and  thereby  empty  everybody's  pock 
ets  in  favour  of  John  Sparrowhawk's,  which  was  a  very 
glutton  of  a  pocket,  and  never  got  enough. 

John  Sparrowhawk's  friend  was  lying  ill  at  the  Hoff 
man.  John  Sparrowhawk  went  into  that  hostelry  and 
climbed  the  stairs,  softly  humming  that  optimistic 
ballad,  which  begins :  "  There's  a  farmer  born  every 
second ! " 


THE  SURETHING  127 

The  sick  friend  took  little  interest  in  the  deadfall 
proposed  by  John  Sparrowhawk.  He  was  suffering 
from  a  mass-meeting  on  the  part  of  divers  boils,  which 
had  selected  a  trysting  place  on  his  person,  where  their 
influence  would  be  felt. 

Locked,  as  it  were,  in  conflict  with  his  afflictions, 
John  Sparrowhawk's  friend  was  indifferent  to  his  horse. 
He  cared  not  what  traps  were  set  with  him. 

John  Sparrowhawk  entered  the  friend's  horse  and 
paid  the  entrance  money — $150.  Then  he  lavished 
$15  on  a  "jock"  to  ride  him.  The  field  was  full,  the 
conditions  of  the  purse  complied  with,  and  the  race  a 
"go."  Of  course,  John  Sparrowhawk's  horse  would 
win  ;  and,  acting  on  it  as  the  chance  of  his  life,  John 
Sparrowhawk  went  craftily  about  wagering  his  dollars, 
even  unto  his  bottom  coin ;  and  all  to  the  end  that  he 
deplete  the  "  jays  "  about  him  and  become  exceeding 
rich. 

"I'm  out  for  the  stuff!"  observed  John  Sparrow- 
hawk,  and  acted  accordingly. 

When  the  race  started  John  Sparrowhawk  had  every 
thing  up  but  his  eyes,  his  ears,  and  other  bric-a-brac  of 
a  personal  sort,  which  would  mean  inconvenience  to  be 
without  a  moment. 

There  could  be  no  purpose  other  than  a  cruel  one,  so 
far  as  John  Sparrowhawk  is  concerned,  to  dwell  on  the 
details  of  this  race.  Suffice  it  that  they  started  and 
they  finished,  and  the  horse  of  the  sick  friend  made  a 
fool  of  the  horse  of  John  Sparrowhawk.  He  beat  him 
like  rocking  a  baby,  so  said  the  sports,  and  thereby 
dumped  the  unscrupulous  yet  sapient  John  Sparrow- 
hawk  for  every  splinter  he  possessed.  It  shook  every 
particle  of  dust  out  of  John  Sparrowhawk.  He  called 


128  SANDBURRS 

to  relate  his  woe  to  his  sick  friend.  That  suffering 
person's  malady  had  temporarily  taken  a  recess  from 
its  labours,  and  for  the  nonce  he  was  resting-  easy. 

"  I  know'd  it,  and  had  four  thousand  placed  that 
way,  John,"  observed  the  invalid.  "  I  win  almost 
thirteen  thousand  on  the  trick.  My  horse  could  do 
that  skate  of  yours  on  three  legs.  I  tumbled  to  it  the 
moment  you  came  in  the  other  day." 

"Why  didn't  you  put  me  on?"  remonstrated  John 
Sparrowhawk,  almost  in  tears,  as  he  thought  of  the 
dray-load  of  money  he  had  lost. 

"  Put  you  on  !"  repeated  the  Job  of  the  Hoffman, 
scornfully  ;  "  not  none  !  I  wanted  to  see  how  it  would 
seem  to  let  a  *  surething  '  sharp  like  you  open  a  game 
on  a  harmless  sufferer  and  '  go  broke '  on  it.  No, 
John  ;  it  will  do  you  good.  You  won't  have  so  much 
money  as  the  result  of  this,  but  you  will  be  a  heap 
more  erudite." 


GLADSTONE  BURR 

GLADSTONE  BURR  is  a  small,  industrious,  married 
man.  His  little  nest  of  a  home  is  in  Brooklyn.  Per 
haps  the  most  emphasised  feature  of  the  Burr  family 
home  is  Mrs.  B.  She  is  a  large  woman,  direct  as  Bis 
marck  in  her  diplomacy,  and  when  Gladstone  Burr  does 
wrong,  she  tells  him  of  it  firmly  and  fully  for  his  good. 
There  is  but  one  bad  habit  which  can  with  slightest 
show  of  truth  be  charged  to  Gladstone  Burr.  The 
barriers  of  his  nature,  yielding  to  social  pressure,  at  in 
tervals  give  way.  At  such  times  the  soul  of  Gladstone 
Burr  issues  forth  on  a  sea  of  strong  drink. 

But,  as  he  says  himself,  "  these  bats  never  last  longer 
than  ten  days." 

Notwithstanding  this  meagre  limit,  Mrs.  B.  does  not 
approve  of  Gladstone  Burr  when  thus  socially  relaxed. 
And  from  time  to  time  she  has  left  nothing  unsaid  on 
that  point.  Indeed,  Mrs.  B.  has  so  fully  defined  her 
position  on  the  subject,  that  Gladstone  Burr,  while  he 
in  no  sense  fears  her,  does  not  care  to  go  home  unless 
he  is  either  very  drunk  or  very  sober.  There  is  no 
middle  ground  in  tippling  where  Gladstone  Burr  and 
Mrs.  B.  can  meet  with  his  consent.  He  is  not  super 
stitious,  but  he  avers  that  whenever  he  has  been  drink 
ing  and  meets  Mrs.  B.  he  has  had  bad  luck.  His  only 
safety  lies  in  either  being  sober  and  avoiding  it,  or  in 
taking  refuge  in  a  jag  too  thick  for  wifely  admonitions 
to  pierce. 

9  129 


130  SANDBURRS 

There  arose  last  week  in  the  life  of  Gladstone  Burr 
some  event  that  it  was  absolutely  necessary  to  cele 
brate.  For  two  days  he  gave  himself  up  to  his  destiny 
in  that  behalf,  and  being  very  busy  with  his  festival 
Gladstone  Burr  did  not  go  home. 

Toward  the  close  of  the  third  day  he  was  considering 
with  himself  how  best  to  approach  his  domicile  so  as 
to  avoid  the  full  force  of  the  storm.  He  was  not  so 
deep  in  his  cups  at  that  moment,  but  Mrs.  B.'s  opinions 
gave  him  concern.  Still,  he  felt  the  need  of  going 
home.  He  was  tired  and  he  was  sick.  Gladstone  Burr 
knew  he  would  be  a  great  deal  sicker  in  the  morning, 
but  he  felt  of  a  four-bit  piece  in  his  pocket,  and  remark 
ing  something  about  the  hair  of  a  dog,  took  courage, 
and  was  confident  he  carried  the  means  of  restoring 
himself. 

But  how  to  get  home ! 

It  was  at  this  crisis  in  the  affairs  of  Gladstone  Burr 
that  his  friend,  Frederick  Upham  Adams,  came  up. 
An  inspiration  seized  Gladstone  Burr.  Adams  should 
take  him  home  in  a  carriage.  Mrs.  B.  didn't  know 
Adams,  being  careful  of  her  acquaintances.  They 
would  say  that  he,  Gladstone  Burr,  had  been  ill,  al 
most  dead  from  apoplexy,  or  sunstroke,  during  the 
recent  hot  spell,  and  that  "  Dr.  Adams  "  was  bringing 
him  home. 

It  was  a  most  happy  thought. 

"  Don't  be  alarmed,  Mrs.  Burr,"  said  Adams,  as  an 
hour  later  he  supported  the  drooping  Gladstone  Burr 
through  the  hall  and  stowed  him  away  on  a  sofa.  "  I 
am  Dr.  Adams,  of  Williamsburg.  Mr.  Burr  has  suffered 
a  great  shock,  but  he  is  out  of  danger  now.  All  he 
needs  is  rest — perfect  rest !  " 


"GIVE    HIM    MILK,    MRS.    UURR,    MILK!"— Page    fjf. 


GLADSTONE  BURR  131 

Gladstone  Burr  gasped  piteously  from  the  sofa. 
Mrs.  B.  was  deceived  perfectly.  The  ruse  worked  like 
a  charm. 

"  How  long  must  he  be  kept  quiet,  Doctor  ?  "  asked 
Mrs.  B.,  as  she  wrung  her  hands  over  Gladstone  Burr's 
danger.  She  was  bending  above  the  invalid  at  the 
time,  and  he  was  unable  to  signal  his  friend  to  be  care 
ful  how  he  prescribed. 

"Oh!  ahem!  "  observed  "Dr.  Adams,"  looking  at 
the  ceiling,  professionally,  "  about  three  days  !  That 
is  right !  Perfect  rest  for  three  days,  and  Mr.  Burr  will 
be  a  well  man  again." 

"  Are  there  directions  as  to  what  medicines  to  give 
him?"  asked  Mrs.  B.,  passing  her  hand  gently  over 
Gladstone  Burr's  heated  dome  of  thought ;  "  any  direc 
tions  about  the  food,  Doctor?  " 

"  He  needs  no  medicine,"  observed  the  wretched 
Adams,  closing  his  eyes  sagaciously,  and  sucking  his 
cane.  "  As  for  food,  we  must  be  careful.  I  should 
advise  nothing  but  milk.  Give  him  milk,  Mrs.  Burr, 
milk." 

After  this  Frederick  Upham  Adams  drove  away. 
And  at  the  end  of  three  days  Gladstone  Burr  was  al 
most  dead. 


THE  GARROTE 

(ANNALS  OF  THE  BEND) 

"  TELL  youse  somethin*  about  d'  worser  side  of  d' 
Bend  !  "  retorted  Chucky.  His  manner  was  resentful. 
I  had  put  my  question  in  a  fashion  half  apologetic  and 
as  one  who  might  be  surprised  at  anything  bad  in  the 
Bend.  It  was  this  lamblike  method  of  being  curious 
that  Chucky  didn't  applaud.  Evidently  he  gloried  a 
bit  in  the  criminal  vigour  of  certain  phases  of  a  Bend 
existence. 

"  Mebby  you  t'inks  there  is  no  worser  side  to  d' 
Bend  !  Mebby  you  takes  d'  Bend  for  a  hotbed  of  in 
nocence  !  Don't  string  no  stuff  on  d'  milky  character 
of  d'  Bend.  Youse  would  lose  it  one,  two,  t'ree,  keno ! 
see  !  There's  dead  loads  of  t'ings  about  d'  Bend  what's 
so  tough  it  'ud  make  youse  sore  on  yourself  to  get 
onto  'em. 

"  Be  d'  way !  while  youse  is  chinnin'  concernin'  d' 
hard  lines  of  d'  Bend,  I'm  put  in  mind  about  Danny  d' 
Face,  who  shows  up  from  Sing  Sing  to-day.  Say !  d' 
Face  wasn't  doin'  a  t'ing  but  put  up  a  roar  all  d'  morn- 
irT,  till  a  cop  shows  up  an'  lays  it  out  cold  if  d'  Face 
don't  cork,  he'll  pinch  him. 

"  What  was  d'  squeal  about  ?     Why  !  it's  like  this," 

continued  Chucky,  settling  himself  where  the  barkeeper 

might  know  when  his  glass  was  empty.     "  It's  all  about 

d'  Face's  Bundle.     When  d'  victim  takes  his  little  ten 

132 


THE  GARROTE  133 

spaces,  his  Bundle  mourns  'round  for  a  brace  of  mont's, 
see  !  An'  then  she  marries  another  guy. 

"  What  else  could  youse  look  for?  That's  what  I 
say  ;  what  could  d'  Face  expect  ?  Ten  spaces  ain't  like 
a  stretch,  it's  '  life/  see  !  D'  mug  who  chases  in  an* 
takes  a  trip  for  ten,  he's  a  lifer.  An'  you  knows  as 
well  as  me,  even  if  youse  ain't  done  time,  that  when  a 
duck  gets  life,  it's  d'  same  as  a  divorce.  That's  dead 
straight !  his  Bundle  is  free  to  get  married  ag'in. 

"  An'  that's  just  what  d'  Face's  Rag  does  ;  she  hooks 
up  wit'  another  skate,  after  d'  Face  has  had  his  stripes 
for  a  couple  of  mont's.  She's  no  tree-toad  to  live  on 
air  an'  scenery,  so  she  gets  hitched.  I  was  right  there, 
pipin'  off  d'  play  meself,  when  d'  w'ite  choker  ties  'em. 
It  was  a  good  weddin',  wit*  a  dandy  lot  of  lush  ;  d'  can 
was  passin'  all  d'  time,  an'  so  d'  mem'ry  of  it  is  wit'  me 
still. 

"  As  I  says,  d'  Face  comes  weavin'  in  this  mornin', 
an'  tries  to  break  up  what  d'  poipers  call  '  existin'  con 
ditions/  It  don't  go,  though  ;  d'  cop  cuts  in  on  d'  play 
an'  makes  it  a  cinch  case  of  nit,  see  ! 

"What'lld'  Face  do?  What  can  he  do  but  screw 
his  nut  an'  stan'  for  it  ?  He  ain't  got  no  licence  to 
interfere.  It's  a  case  of  '  nothin'  doin','  as  far  as  d' 
Face's  end  goes.  Let  him  charge  'round  an*  grab  off 
another  skirt.  There's  plenty  of  'em  ;  d'  Face  can  find 
another  wife  if  he  goes  d'  right  way  down  d'  line.  But 
he  don't  make  no  hit  be  hollerin',  he  can  take  a  tumble 
to  that. 

"What  is  it  railroads  d'  Face?  He  does  a  stunt 
garrotin',  see  !  I'll  tell  youse  d'  story.  Of  course,  d' 
Face  is  a  crook. 

"Now,  understan'   me!     I  ain't  no    crook.     I'm  a 


134  SANDBURRS 

fakir,  an'  a  grafter ;  an'  I've  been  fly  in  me  time  an' 
I  ain't  no  dub  to-day,  but  I  never  was  no  crook,  see ! 
But,  of  course,  born  as  I  was  in  Kelly's  Alley,  an'  al 
ways  free  of  d'  Bowery  push,  I  hears  a  lot  about  crooks, 
an'  has  more'n  one  of  d'  swell  mob  on  me  visitin'  list. 

"  Naw ;  d'  Face  was  never  in  d'  foist  circles,  nothin' 
fine  to  him.  He  never  was  d'  real  t'ing  as  a  dip,  an'  d' 
best  he  could  do  was  to  shove  an'  stall.  Now  an'  then 
he  toins  a  trick  as  a  porch  climber ;  but  even  at  that  I 
never  gets  a  tip  of  any  big  second-story  woik  d'  Face 
does. 

"  D'  Face's  best  trick  is  d'  garrote,  an'  it's  on  d'  gar- 
rote  lay  dey  downs  d'  Face  when  dey  puts  him  away. 

"  Now-days  there's  a  lot  of  sandbaggin'.  Some  mug 
comes  wanderin'  along,  loaded  to  d'  guards  wit'  booze, 
an'  some  soon  duck  lends  him  a  t'ump  back  of  d'  nut 
wit'  a  sandbag,  or  mebby  it's  a  lead  pipe  or  a  bar  of 
rubber.  Over  goes  d'  slewed  mug,  on  his  map,  an' 
d'  rest  is  easy  money,  see  !  That's  d'  way  it's  done 
now. 

"  But  in  d'  old  times,  when  I  \i\  a  kid,  it  ain't  d' 
sandbag;  it's  d'  garrote.  An'  d'  patient  can  be  cold 
sober,  still  d'  garrote  goes  all  right.  It  takes  two  to 
woik  it ;  but  even  at  that  it  beats  d'  sandbag  hands 
down.  It's  smoother,  cleaner,  and  more  like  a  woik- 
man,  see  !  d'  garrote  is. 

"  Besides,  there's  more  apt  to  be  stuff  on  a  sober 
party  than  on  some  stiff  who's  tanked.  I  know  d' 
poipers  is  always  talkin'  about  people  gettin'  a  load, 
wit'  money  all  over  'em  ;  but  youse  can  gamble !  such 
talk  is  a  song  an'  dance.  I'm  more'n  seven  years  old, 
an'  me  exper'ence  is,  that  it's  a  four-to-one  shot  a 
drunk  is  every  time  broke. 


THE  GARROTE.  135 

"  But  to  go  to  d'  story  of  how  d'  Face  gets  pinched. 
As  I  states,  it's  way  back  ;  not  quite  ten  spaces  (for  d' 
Face  shortens  his  stay  at  d'  pen  wit'  good  conduct  time 
see  !),  an'  d'  Face  an'  a  pal,  Spot  Casey,  who's  croaked 
now,  is  out  on  d'  garrote  lay. 

"  D'  Face  is  following  an*  Spot  is  sluggin'.  Here's 
how  dey  lays  out  d'  game.  It's  on  Fift'  Avenoo, 
down  be  Nint'.  Spot's  playin'  round  d'  corner  on 
Nint';  d'  Face  is  woikin'  about  a  block  away  on  Fift' 
Avenoo,  on  d'  lookout  for  a  sucker,  see !  Along  he 
comes  walkin'  fast,  this  sucker.  As  he  passes,  d'  Face 
gives  him  d'  size-up.  He's  got  a  spark,  an'  a  yellow 
chain,  an'  looks  like  he's  good  for  a  hundred  in  d'  long 
green.  That  does  for  d'  Face.  He  lets  this  guy  get 
good  an'  by,  an'  then  toins  an'  shadows  him. 

"  D'  Face  walks  faster  than  d'  sucker.  It's  his  play 
to  be  nex',  be  d'  time  dey  hits  Nint',  where  Spot  is 
layin'  dead. 

"  As  dey  chases  up,  d'  Face  an'  d'  snoozer  he's  out 
to  do  is  hot*  walkin'  fast,  wit'  d'  Face  five  foot  behint. 

"  Just  before  dey  makes  d'  corner,  d'  Face  gives  d' 
office  to  Spot  be  stampin'  onct  wit'  his  trilby  on  d' 
sidewalk.  Then  he  moves  right  up  sharp,  claps  his 
right  arm  about  d'  geezer's  t'roat,  at  d'  same  time 
grabbin'  his  right  hook  wit'  his  left  an'  yankin'  his  arrn 
in  tight.  It  shuts  off  d'  duck's  wind. 

"  As  d'  Face  clenches  his  party,  as  I  says,  he  gives 
him  d'  knee  behint,  an'  sort  o'  lifts  him  up.  At  d' 
same  instant,  Spot  comes  chasin'  round  d'  corner  in 
front  an'  smashes  his  right  duke  into  what  d'  prize 
fighters  calls  '  d'  mark.'  Yes,  it's  d'  same  t'ump  that 
does  for  Corbett  that  day  wit'  Fitz. 

"  '  That's  d'  stuff,  Spot ! '  says  d'  Face,  as  d'  party  is 


136  SANDBURRS 

slugged,  an'  then  he  sets  him  down  be  d'  fence  all  limp 
an'  quiet,  an'  goes  t'rough  him. 

"  Dey  gets  a  super,  a  pin,  an*  quite  a  healt'y  roll  be 
sides.  He's  so  done  up  dey  even  gets  a  di'mond  off 
one  of  his  hooks. 

"  Sure !  d'  garrote  almost  puts  a  mark's  light  out. 
Youse  can  bet !  after  youse  has  been  t'rough  d'  mill 
onct,  youse  won't  t'ink,  travel,  nor  raise  d'  yell  for  half 
an  hour.  A  mark's  lucky  to  be  alive  who's  been 
t'rough  d'  garrote.  It  ain't  so  bad  as  d'  sandbag  at 
that,  neither. 

"  How  was  it  d'  Face  is  took?  Nit;  d'  cop  don't 
get  in  on  d'  play ;  dey  win  easy.  It's  two  weeks  later 
when  he's  collared.  D'  Face's  pal,  Spot,  gets  too  gabby 
wit'  a  skirt,  who's  stoolin'  for  d'  p'lice  on  d'  sly,  an' 
she  goes  an'  knocks  to  d'  Chief ! " 


O'TOOLE'S  CHIVALRY 

A  woman,  a  spaniel,  and  a  walnut  tree  ; 
The  more  you  beat  them,  the  better  they  be. 

Irish  Proverb. 

THUS  sadly  sang  P.  Sarsfield  O'Toole  to  himself,  as 
he  readjusted  the  bandage  to  his  wronged  eye.  He 
believed  it,  too  ;  at  least  in  the  case  of  Madame  Bridget 
Burke,  the  wife  of  one  John  Burke. 

The  Burkes  were  the  neighbours  of  P.  Sarsfield 
O'Toole  ;  they  lived  next  door.  The  intimacy,  how 
ever,  went  no  further ;  O'Toole  and  the  Burkes  were 
not  friends. 

This  is  the  story  of  the  damaged  eye.  It  offers  the 
reason  why  P.  Sarsfield  O'Toole  comforted  himself 
with  the  vigorous  Irish  proverb. 

It  was  the  evening  before.  P.  Sarsfield  O'Toole  was 
sitting  on  his  back  porch,  cooling  himself  after  a  day's 
work  at  his  profession  of  bricklayer,  by  reading  the 
history  of  Ireland.  The  Burkes  were  holding  audible 
converse  just  over  the  division  fence. 

P.  Sarsfield  O'Toole  closed  the  history  of  his  native 
land  to  listen.  This  last  was  neither  an  arduous  nor  a 
painful  task,  for  the  Burkes,  with  the  splendid  frank 
ness  of  a  household  willing  to  stand  or  fall  by  its 
record,  could  be  heard  a  block. 


138  SANDBURRS 

"  Me  family  was  noble  !  "  P.  Sarsfield  O'Toole  over- 
heard  John  Burke  remark.  "  The  Burkes  wanst 
lived  in  their  own  cashtle." 

"  They  did  not,"  observed  Madame  Burke.  "  They 
lived  woild  in  the  bog  of  Allen,  and  there  was  mud 
on  their  shanks  from  wan  ind  of  the  year  to  the 
other.  Divvil  a  cashtle  did  a  Burke  ever  see  ;  barrin' 
a  jail." 

"  Woman !  av  yez  arouse  me,"  said  John  Burke, 
threateningly,  "  I'll  break  the  bones  of  ye,  an'  fling 
yez  in  the  corner  to  mend.  Don't  exashperate  me, 
woman." 

"  I  exashperate  yez ! "  retorted  Madame  Burke, 
scornfully.  "  For  phwat  wud  I  exashperate  yez ! 
Wasn't  your  own  uncle  transhpoorted  ?  Answer  me 
that,  John  Burke?" 

"  Me  uncle  suffered  to  free  Ireland,  woman ! "  re 
sponded  the  husband. 

"  May  the  divvil  hould  him  !  "  said  Madame  Burke. 
"  He  was  transhpoorted  as  a  felon,  for  b'atin*  the  head 
off  Humpy  Pete,  the  cripple,  at  the  Fair.  He  was  an 
illygant  speciment  of  a  Burke  !  always  b'atin'  cripples 
an'  women ! " 

The  fast  would  seem  to  have  been  an  unfortunate 
remark,  in  so  far  as  it  contained  a  suggestion.  The 
next  heard  by  the  listening  P.  Sarsfield  OToole  was 
the  loud  lament  of  Madame  Bridget  Burke  as  her 
husband,  John  Burke,  submitted  her  to  that  correction 
which  he  afterwards  described  to  the  police  justice  as, 
"givin*  her  a  tashte  av  the  sthrap." 

The  cries  of  Madame  Bridget  Burke  were  at  their 
highest  when  P.  Sarsfield  O'Toole  looked  over  the 
fence. 


OTOOLE'S  CHIVALRY  139 

44  Shtop  b'atin'  the  leddy,  John  Burke  !  "  commanded 
P.  Sarsfield  OToole. 

"  Phwat's  it  to  yez  !  ye  Far-down  !  "  demanded  John 
Burke,  looking  up  from  his  labours.  "  Av  yez  hang 
your  chin  on  that  line  fince  ag'in,  I'll  welt  the  life  out 
av  yez  !  D'ye  moind  it  now  !  " 

u  Is  it  to  me  yez  apploies  the  word  '  Far-down  !  " 
shouted  P.  Sarsfield  O'Toole,  wrathfully.  "  Phwat  are 
yez  yerself  but  a  rascal  of  a  Stonethrower  ?  Don't 
timpt  me  with  your  names,  John  Burke,  an'  shtop 
b'atin'  the  leddy.  If  I  iver  come  over  wanst  to  yez, 
I'll  return  a  criminal!  " 

"  Shtop  b'atin'  me  own  lawful  Bridget,"  retorted 
John  Burke,  in  tones  of  scorn,  "  when  she's  been 
teasin'  for  the  sthrap  a  month  beyant !  Well,  I  loike 
that  !  I'll  settle  with  yez,  O'Toole,  when  I  tache  me 
woife  to  respect  the  name  of  Burke."  Here  the  rep 
resentative  of  that  honourable  title  smote  Madame 
Bridget  lustily.  "  Av  I  foind  yez  in  me  yarud,  O' 
Toole,  ye'll  lay  no  bricks  to-morry." 

P.  Sarsfield  O'Toole  cleared  the  fence  at  a  bound. 
He  was  chivalrous,  and  would  rescue  Madame  Burke. 
He  was  proud  and  would  resent  the  opprobrious  epi 
thet  of  "Far-down."  He  was  sensitive,  and  would 
teach  John  Burke  never  to  threaten  him  with  disability 
as  a  bricklayer. 

P.  Sarsfield  O'Toole,  as  stated,  cleared  the  fence  at  a 
bound,  and  closed  with  John  Burke  as  if  he  were  a 
bargain. 

What  might  have  been  the  finale  of  this  last  collision 
will  never  be  known.  As  P.  Sarsfield  O'Toole  and 
John  Burke  danced  about,  locked  in  a  deadly  embrace, 
the  emancipated  Madame  Burke  suddenly  selected  a 


140  SANDBURRS 

piece  of  scantling  from  the  general  armory  of  the 
Burke  backyard  and  brought  it  down,  not  on  the  head 
of  her  oppressor,  but  on  that  of  the  gallant  P.  Sarsfield 
O'Toole,  who  had  come  to  her  rescue. 

"  Oh,  ye  murtherin'  villyun  !  '*  shouted  Madame  Burke. 
"  W'ud  yez  kill  a  husband  befure  the  eyes  of  his 
lawful  widded  woife !  An'  due  yez  think  I'd  wear  his 
ring  and  see  yez  do  it  !  " 

At  this  point  in  the  conversation  Madame  Bridget 
Burke  cut   a  long,  satisfactory   gash    in    P.    Sarsfield 
O'Toole,  just  over  the  eye. 
The  police  came. 

John  Burke  was  fined  twenty  dollars. 
Madame  Bridget  Burke,  present    lovingly  in   court, 
paid  it  with  a  composite  air,  breathing  insolence  for 
the  judge  and  affection  for  John  Burke. 

"  Theijeeav  that  shpalpeen,  O'Toole,"  said  Madame 
Burke  that  evening  to  John  Burke,  and  her  words 
floated  over  the  fence  to  P.  Sarsfield  O'Toole,  as  he 
nursed  his  wounds  on  his  porch;  "the  ijee  av  that 
shpalpeen,  O'Toole,  comin'  bechuxt  man  and  woife! 
D'  yez  moind  th'  cheek  av  'im  !  Didn't  the  priest  say, 
'Phwat  hivin  has  j'ined  togither,  let  no  man  put  asoon- 
der?" 

"  He  did,  Bridget,  he  did,"  replied  John  Burke. 
"  An'  yez  have  the  particulars  av  a  foine  woman  about 
yez,  yerself,  Bridget !  " 

"  Troth !  an'  I  have,"  said  Madame  Burke,  giving 
full  consent  to  this  view  of  her  merits.  "  But,  John, 
phwat  a  rapscallion  yer  uncle  they  transhpoorted  must 
av  been,  to  bate  the  loife  out  o'  poor  Humpy  Pete,  the 
cripple-fiddler,  that  toime  at  the  Fair  !  " 

For  the  second  time  the  strap  fell,  and  the  shrieks 


OTOOLE'S  CHIVALRY  141 

of  Madame  Burke  filled  the  neighbourhood.  P.  Sars- 
field  O'Toole,  still  on  his  porch,  sat  unmoved,  and  be 
stowed  no  interest  on  the  doings  of  the  Burkes.  As 
the  strap  was  plied  and  the  yells  of  the  victim  uplifted, 
P.  Sarsfield  O'Toole  repeated  the  proverb  which  stands 
at  the  head  of  this  story. 


WAGON  MOUND  SAL 

(WOLFVILLE) 

IT  was  Wagon  Mound  Sal — she  got  the  prefix  later 
and  was  plain  "  Sal  "  at  the  time — who  took  up  laundry 
labours  when  Benson  Annie  became  a  wife.  And  this 
tells  of  the  wooing  and  wedding  of  Riley  Bent  with 
Sallie  of  Wagon  Mound. 

Wagon  Mound  Sal  prevailed,  as  stated,  the  mistress 
of  a  laundry.  And  it  was  there  Riley  Bent  first  beheld 
her,  as  she  was  putting  a  tubful  of  the  blue  woollen  shirts 
affected  by  the  males  of  her  region  through  a  second 
suds.  On  this  occasion  Riley's  appearance  was  due  to 
a  misunderstanding.  He  was  foggy  with  drink,  and 
looked  in  on  a  theory  that  the  place  was  a  store  which 
made  a  specialty  of  the  sale  of  shirts. 

"  What  for  a  j'int  is  this  ?"  asked  Riley  as  he  entered. 

"It's  a  laundry,"  replied  Sal;  and  then  observing 
that  Riley  Bent  was  in  his  cups,  she  continued  with 
delicate  firmness;  "  an'  if  you-all  ain't  mighty  keerful 
how  you  line  out,  you'll  shorely  get  a  smoothiti*  iron 
direct." 

Nothing  daunted  by  the  lady's  candour,  Riley  Bent 
sat  down  on  a  furloughed  tub  which  reposed  bottom 
up  in  one  corner.  In  the  course  of  a  conversation, 
whereof  he  furnished  the  questions,  and  Sal  the  short, 

142 


WAGON  MOUND  SAL  143 

inhospitable  replies,  it  occurred  that  she  and  Riley 
Bent  became  mutually,  albeit  dimly,  known  to  one 
another. 

During  the  three  months  following,  Riley  Bent  was 
much  and  persistently  in  the  laundry  of  Wagon  Mound 
Sal.  Wolfville,  eagle-eyed  in  the  softer  and  more 
dulcet  phenomena  of  life,  looked  confidently  for  a 
wedding.  So  in  truth  did  Sal,  emulous  of  Benson 
Annie.  Also  Sal  was  a  clear-minded,  resolute  young 
lady ;  and  having  one  day  concluded  to  take  Riley 
Bent  for  better  or  for  worse,  she  lost  no  time  in  bring 
ing  matters  to  a  focus. 

"  You're  a  maverick  ?  "  she  one  day  asked,  suddenly 
looking  up  from  her  ironing.  Sal's  tones  were  steady 
and  cool,  but  it  was  noticed  that  she  burnt  a  hole  in 
the  bosom  of  Doc  Peets's  shirt  while  waiting  a  reply. 
"  You-all  ain't  married  none?" 

"  Thar  ain't  no  squaw  has  ever  been  able  to  rope, 
throw  an'  run  her  brand  on  me !  "  said  Riley  Bent. 
"  Which  I'm  shorely  a  maverick  !  " 

"  Whatever  then  is  the  matter  of  you  an'  me 
dealin'  ? "  asked  Sal,  coming  around  to  Riley  Bent's 
side  of  the  ironing  table. 

That  personage  surveyed  her  in  a  thoughtful  maze. 

"  You're  a  long  horn,  an'  for  that  much  so  be  I,"  he 
said  at  last,  as  one  who  meditates.  "  Neither  of  us 
would  grade  for  corn-fed  in  anybody's  yards !  " 

Then  came  another  long  pause,  during  which,  with 
his  eyes  fixedly  gazing  into  Wagon  Mound  Sal's, 
Riley  Bent  gave  himself  to  the  unwonted  employment 
of  thinking.  At  last  he  shook  his  head  until  the  little 
gold  bells  on  his  bullion  hatband  tinkled  in  a  dubious, 
uncertain  way,  as  taking  their  tone  from  the  wearer. 


144  SANDBURRS 

"  Which  the  idee  bucks  me  plumb  off  !  "  he  remarked, 
with  a  final  deep  breath  ;  and  then  with  no  further 
word  Riley  repaired  to  the  Red  Light  Saloon  and  be 
came  dejectedly  yet  deeply  drunk. 

For  a  month  Wolfville  saw  naught  of  Riley  Bent. 
He  was  supposed  to  be  two-score  miles  away  on  the 
range  with  his  cattle.  Wagon  Mound  Sal,  with  a  trace 
of  grimness  about  the  mouth,  conducted  her  laundry, 
and,  in  the  absence  of  competition,  waxed  opulent. 
She  looked  confidently  for  the  return  of  Riley  Bent ; 
as  what  woman,  knowing  her  spells  and  powers,  would 
have  not. 

At  last  he  came.  Sal,  as  well  as  Wolfville,  learned 
of  his  presence  by  a  mellow  whoop  at  the  far  end  of 
the  single  street.  Sal  was  subsequently  gratified  by  a 
view  of  him  as  he  and  a  comrade,  one  Rice  Hoskins, 
slid  from  their  saddles  and  entered  the  Red  Light 
Saloon. 

Wagon  Mound  Sal  was  offended  at  this  ;  he  should 
have  come  straight  to  her.  But  beyond  slamming  her 
irons  unreasonably  as  she  replaced  them  on  the  range, 
she  made  no  sign. 

To  give  Riley  Bent  justice,  he  had  done  little  during 
the  month  of  his  absence  save  think  of  Wagon  Mound 
Sal.  Whether  he  pursued  the  evanescent  steer,  or 
organised  the  baking  powder  biscuit  of  his  day  and 
kind,  Wagon  Mound  Sal  ran  ever  in  his  thoughts  like 
a  torrent.  But  he  couldn't  bring  himself  to  the  notion 
of  a  wife  ;  not  even  if  that  favoured  woman  were  Wagon 
Mound  Sal. 

"  Seems  like  bein'  married  that  a-way,"  he  explained 
to  Rice  Hoskins,  as  they  discussed  the  business  about 
their  camp-fire,  "  is  so  onnacheral." 


WAGON  MOUND  SAL  145 

"  That's  whatever  !  "  assented  Rice  Hoskins. 

"  But,"  said  Riley  Bent  after  a  pause;  "  I  reckon  I'd 
better  ride  in  an'  tell  her  she  don't  get  me  none,  an' 
end  the  game." 

"  That's  whatever  !  " 

It  was  deference  to  this  view  which  gained  Wolf- 
ville  the  pleasure  of  the  presence  of  Riley  Bent  and 
Rice  Hoskins  on  the  occasion  named.  It  had  been 
Riley  Bent's  plan — having  first  acquired  what  stimu 
lant  he  might  crave — to  leave  Rice  Hoskins  to  the 
companionship  of  the  barkeeper,  while  he  repaired 
briefly  to  Wagon  Mound  Sal,  and  expressed  a  deter 
mination  never  to  wed.  But  after  the  first  drink  he  so 
far  modified  the  programme  as  to  decide,  instead,  to  write 
a  letter. 

"You  see!  "  he  said,  "  writin'  a  letter  shows  a  heap 
more  respect.  An'  then  ag'in,  if  I  goes  personal,  she 
might  get  all  wrought  up  an'  lay  for  me  permiscus  a 
whole  lot." 

The  flaw  in  this  letter  plan  became  apparent. 
Neither  Riley  Bent  nor  Rice  Hoskins  could  write. 
They  made  application  to  Black  Jack,  the  barkeeper, 
to  act  as  amanuensis.  But  he  saw  objection,  and 
hesitated. 

"  I  reckon  I'll  pass  the  deal,  gents, "said  Black  Jack, 
"  if  you-alls  don't  mind.  The  grand  jury  is  goin'  to 
begin  their  round-up  over  in  Tucson  next  week,  an' 
they'd  jest  about  call  it  forgery." 

At  last  as  a  solution,  Rice  Hoskins  drew  a  rude 
picture  in  ink  of  a  woman  going  one  way,  and  a  man 
with  a  big  hat  and  disreputable  spurs,  going  the  other ; 
what  he  called  an  "  Injun  letter."  This  work  of  art  he 

regarded  with  looks  of  sagacity  and  satisfaction. 
10 


SANDBURRS 

"  If  she  was  an  Injun,"  said  the  artist,  "  she'd  sabe 
that  picture  mighty  quick.  That  means  :  '  You-all 
take  your  trail  an'  I'll  take  mine.'  ' 

"  Which  it  does  seem  plain  as  old  John  Chisholm's 
'  Fence-rail  Brand/  "  remarked  Riley  Bent.  "  Now 
jest  make  a  tub  by  her,  an'  mark  me  with  a  4-bar-J,  the 
same  bein'  my  brand  ;  then  she'll  shorely  tumble. 
Thar's  nothin'  like  ropin'  with  a  big  loop  ;  then  if  you 
miss  the  horns,  you're  mighty  likely  to  fasten  by  the 
feet." 

The  missive  was  despatched  to  Wagon  Mound  Sal 
by  hand  of  a  Mexican.  Then  Riley  Bent  and  Rice 
Hoskins  restored  their  flagged  spirits  with  liquor. 

Riley  Bent  and  Rice  Hoskins  drank  a  vast  deal. 
And  it  came  to  pass,  by  virtue  of  this  indiscretion,  that 
Rice  Hoskins  later,  while  Riley  Bent  was  still  thought 
fully  over  his  cups  at  the  Red  Light,  rode  his  broncho 
into  the  New  York  Store.  In  the  plain  line  of  objec 
tion  to  this,  Jack  Moore,  the  Marshal,  shot  Rice  Hos 
kins'  pony.  As  the  animal  fell  it  pinned  Rice  Hoskins 
to  the  floor  by  his  leg  ;  in  this  disadvantageous 
position  he  emptied  his  pistol  at  Jack  Moore,  and  of 
course  missed. 

Moore  was  in  no  sort  an  idle  target.  He  was  a 
painstaking  Marshal,  and  showed  his  sense  of  duty  at 
this  time  by  putting  four  bullets  through  the  reckless 
bosom  of  Rice  Hoskins  ;  the  staccate  voices  of  their 
Colt's  six-shooters  melted  into  each  other  until  they 
sounded  as  one. 

"  I  never  could  shoot  none  with  a  pony  on  my  laig," 
observed  Rice  Hoskins. 

Then  a  splash  of  blood  stained  his  sun-coloured 
moustache  ;  his  empty  pistol  rattled  on  the  board  floor ; 


"MOORE    WAS    IN    NO    SORT    AN    IDLE    TARGET."—/^    146. 


WAGON  MOUND  SAL  147 

his  head  dropped  on  his  arm,  and  Rice  Hoskins  was 
dead. 

It  was  at  this  crisis  that  Riley  Bent,  startled  by  the 
artillery  as  he  sat  in  the  Red  Light,  came  whirling  to 
the  scene  on  his  pony.  The  duel  was  over  before  he 
set  foot  in  stirrup.  He  saw  at  a  glance  that  Rice 
Hoskins  was  only  a  memory.  Had  he  been  romantic, 
or  a  sentimentalist,  Riley  Bent  would  have  shot  out 
the  hour  with  Jack  Moore,  the  Marshal.  And  had 
there  been  one  spark  of  life  in  the  heart  of  Rice  Hos 
kins  to  have  fought  over,  Riley  Bent  would  have  stood 
in  the  smoke  of  his  own  six-shooter  all  day  and  taken 
what  Fate  might  send.  As  it  was,  however,  he  curbed 
his  broncho  in  mid-speed  so  bluntly,  the  Spanish 
bit  filled  its  mouth  with  blood.  It  spun  on  its  hind 
hoofs  like  a  top.  Then,  as  the  long  spurs  dug  to  its 
ribs,  it  whizzed  off  in  the  opposite  direction  ;  out  of 
camp  like  an  arrow.  The  last  bullet  in  Jack  Moore's 
pistol  splashed  on  a  silver  dollar  in  Riley  Bent's  pocket 
as  he  turned  his  pony. 

"  Whenever  I  reloads  my  pistol,"  said  Jack  Moore 
to  Old  Man  Enright,  who  had  come  up,  "  I  likes  to 
reload  her  all  around  ;  so  I  don't  regyard  that  last 
cartridge  as  no  loss." 

Wagon  Mound  Sal  was  deep  in  a  study  of  Rice 
Hoskins'  "  Injun  letter  "  when  the  shooting  took  place. 
The  missive's  meaning  was  not  so  easy  to  make  out  as 
its  hopeful  authors  had  believed.  When  the  deeds  of 
Jack  Moore  were  related  to  her,  however,  the  brow  of 
Wagon  Mound  Sal  took  on  an  angry  flush.  She  sent 
a  message  to  Jack  Moore  asking  him  to  call  at  once. 

"  Whatever  do  you  mean  ?  "  she  demanded  of  Jack 
Moore,  as  he  entered  the  laundry,  "  a-stampedin'  of 


148  SANDBURRS 

Riley  Bent  out  of  camp  that  a-way  ?  Don't  you  know 
I  was  intendin'  to  marry  him  ?  Yere  he's  been  gone  a 
month,  an'  yet  the  minute  he  shows  up  you  have  to 
take  to  cuttin'  the  dust  'round  his  moccasins  with  your 
six-shooter,  an'  away  he  goes  ag'in.  He  jest  nacher- 
ally  seizes  on  your  gun-play  for  a  good  excuse.  It's 
shore  enough  to  drive  one  plumb  loco  !  " 

Jack  Moore  looked  decidedly  bothered. 

"  Of  course,  Sal,"  he  said  at  last  in  a  deprecatory 
way,  "  you-all  onderstands  that  when  I  takes  to  shakin' 
the  loads  outen  my  six-shooter  at  Riley  Bent,  I  does  it 
offishul.  An'  I'm  free  to  say,  that  I  was  that  wropped 
and  preoccupied  like  with  my  dooties  as  Marshal  at 
the  time,  I  never  thinks  once  of  them  nuptials  you 
med'tates  with  Riley  Bent.  If  I  had  I  would  have 
downed  his  pony  with  that  last  shot  an'  turned  him 
over  to  you.  But  perhaps  it  ain't  too  late." 

It  was  the  next  afternoon.  Riley  Bent  was  reclin 
ing  in  his  camp  in  the  Tres  Hermanas.  Grey,  keen 
eyes  watched  him  from  behind  a  point  of  rocks. 
Suddenly  a  mouthful  of  white  smoke  puffed  from  the 
point  of  rocks,  and  something  hard  and  positive  broke 
Riley  Bent's  leg  just  above  the  knee.  The  blow  of 
the  bullet  shocked  him  for  a  moment,  but  the  next, 
with  a  curse  in  his  mouth,  and  a  six-shooter  in  each 
hand,  he  tumbled  in  behind  a  boulder  to  do  battle  with 
his  assailant.  With  the  crack  of  the  Winchester  which 
accompanied  the  phenomena  of  smoke-puff  and  broken 
leg,  came  the  voice  of  Jack  Moore,  Marshal. 

"  Hold  up  your  hands,  thar  !  "  said  Moore.  "  Up 
with  'em  ;  I  shan't  say  it  twice  !  " 

Riley  Bent  could  not  obey  ;  he  had  taken  ten 
seconds  off  to  faint. 


WAGON  MOUND  SAL  149 

When  he  revived  Jack  Moore  had  claimed  his  pistols 
and  was  calmly  setting  the  bones  of  the  broken  leg  ; 
devoting  the  woollen  shirts  in  the  war-bags  on  his  sad 
dle  to  be  bandages,  and  making  splints  of  cedar  bark. 
These  folk  of  the  plains  and  mountains,  far  from  the 
surgeon,  often  set  each  other's,  or,  for  that  matter,  their 
own  bones,  when  a  fall  from  a  pony,  or  some  similar 
catastrophe,  furnishes  the  call. 

"  If  you-all  needed  me,"  observed  Riley  Bent  peev 
ishly,  when  a  little  later  Jack  Moore  was  engaged  over 
bacon  and  flap-jacks  for  the  sundown  meal,  "  whatever 
was  the  matter  of  sayin'  so  ?  Thisyere  idee  of  shootin' 
up  a  gent  without  notice  or  pow-wow  is  plumb  onlegal. 
An'  I'll  gamble  on  it,  ten  to  one  !  " 

"Well!"  said  Jack  Moore,  as  he  deftly  tossed  a 
flap-jack  in  the  air  and  caught  it  in  the  frying-pan 
again,  "  I  didn't  aim  to  take  no  chances  of  chagrinin' 
one  who  loves  you,  by  lettin'  you  get  away.  Then, 
ag'in,  my  own  notion  is  that  it  might  sorter  hasten  the 
bridal  some.  Thar's  nothin'  like  a  bullet  in  a  party's 
frame  for  makin'  him  feel  romantic  an'  sentimental.  It 
softens  his  nature  a  heap,  an'  sets  him  to  yearnin*  for 
female  care. 

"  Which  you've  been  shootin  me  up  to  be  married  !  " 
responded  Riley  Bent  in  tones  of  disgust. 

"  That's  straight !  "  reto.ted  Jack  Moore,  as  he  slid  the 
last  flap-jack  into  the  invalid's  tin  plate.  "  You've 
been  pesterin'  'round  Wagon  Mound  Sal  ontil  that  lady 
has  become  wropped  in  you.  She  confides  to  me 
cold  that  she's  anxious  to  make  a  weddin'  of  it,  which 
is  all  the  preliminary  necessary  in  Arizona.  You  are 
goin'  back  to  Wolfville  with  me  tomorry  on  a  buck- 
board, — which  will  be  sent  on  yere  from  the  stage  station, 


150  SANDBURRS 

— an*  after  Doc  Peets  goes  over  your  laig  ag'in,  you  an* 
Wagon  Mound  Sal  are  goin'  to  become  man  an'  wife 
like  a  landslide.  You  have  bred  hopes  in  that  lady's 
bosom,  an' you've  got  to  make 'em  good.  That's  all 
thar  is  to  this  play  ;  an'  you  don't  get  your  guns  ag'in 
ontil  you're  a  married  man." 

Jack  Moore,  firm,  direct  and  decided,  had  a  great 
effect  in  fixing  the  wandering  fancies  of  Riley  Bent. 
He  thoughtfully  masticated  his  flap-jack  a  moment, 
and  then  asked  : 

"  S'pose  I  arches  my  back  an'  takes  to  buckin'  at 
these  yere  abrupt  methods  in  my  destinies  ;  s'pose  I 
quits  the  deal  cold?" 

"  In  which  eevent,"  responded  Jack  Moore,  with  an 
air  of  iron  confidence,  "  we  merely  convenes  the 
Stranglers  an'  hangs  you  for  luck." 

But  Riley  Bent  was  softened  and  his  mind  made 
fully  up.  Whether  it  was  the  sentimental  influence  of 
Jack  Moore's  bullet,  which  Doc  Peets  subsequently 
dug  out ;  or  whether  Riley  was  touched  by  the  fact  that 
Wagon  Mound  Sal,  herself,  brought  over  the  buckboard 
to  convey  him  to  Wolfville,  may  never  be  known. 
What  was  certain,  however,  was  that  Riley  Bent 
came  finally  to  the  conclusion  to  wed.  He  told 
Wagon  Mound  Sal  so  while  on  the  buckboard  going 
back. 

"  Which  it's  shorely  doubtful,"  said  Wagon  Mound 
Sal,  "  if  any  man  is  worth  the  trouble.  An'  this  yere 
is  my  busiest  day,  too !  " 

There  was  great  rejoicing  in  the  wareroom  of  the 
New  York  Store.  A  whole  box  of  candles  blazed 
gloriously  from  the  walls.  Old  Man  Enright  gave  the 
bride  away,  Benson  Annie  appeared  to  look  on,  while 


WAGON  MOUND  SAL  151 

Faro  Nell  supported  Sal  as  bridesmaid.  As  usual,  in 
any  hour  of  sacred  need,  a  preacher  was  obtained  from 
Tucson. 

"  An*  you  can  bet  that  pastor  knows  his  business !  " 
said  Old  Monte,  the  stage  driver,  who  had  been  com 
missioned  to  bring  one  over.  "  He's  a  deep-water 
brand,  an*  he's  all  right !  I  takes  my  steer  when  I 
seelects  him  from  the  barkeep  of  the  Golden  Rod 
saloon,  an'  he'd  no  more  give  me  the  wrong  p'inter, 
that  a-way,  than  he'd  give  me  the  wrong  bottle." 

Doc  Peets's  offering  to  the  bride  was  a  bullet.  It 
was  formerly  the  property  of  Jack  Moore.  It  was  the 
one  he  conferred  on  Riley  Bent  that  evening  in  the 
foothills  of  the  Tres  Hermanas. 

"Keep  it!"  said  Doc  Peets  to  the  bride.  "It's 
what  sobers  him,  an'  takes  the  frivolity  outen  him,  an' 
makes  him  know  his  own  heart." 

"  An'  I  shorely  reckons  you're  right  that  a-way,  Doc," 
said  Jack  Moore,  some  hours  after  the  wedding  as  the 
two  turned  from  the  laundry  whither  Moore  had  re 
paired  to  return  Riley  Bent  his  pistols  ;  "  I  shore  reck 
ons  you're  right  a  whole  lot.  I  knows  a  gent  in  the 
states,  an'  he  tells  me  himse'f  how  he  goes  projectin' 
'round,  keepin'  company  with  a  lady  for  a  year,  an' 
ain't  thinkin*  none  speshul  of  marry  in'  her.  One  day 
somebody  gets  plumb  tired  of  the  play  an'  shoots  him 
some,  after  which  he  simply  goes  about  pantin'  to 
lead  that  lady  to  the  altar  ;  that's  straight ! " 


JOE  DUBUQUE'S  LUCK 
(ANNALS  OF  THE  BEND) 

"  YOUSE  can  soak  your  super,"  said  Chucky,  "  some 
dubs  has  luck  !  I've  seen  marks  who  could  fall  into  d' 
sewer,  see  !  an'  come  out  wit'  a  bunch  of  lilacs  in  each 
mit. 

"  Nit  ;  it  wasn't  all  luck  wit*  Joe  Dubuque.  His 
breakin'  out  of  hock  that  time  is  some  luck,  but  mostly 
'cause  Joe  himself  is  a  dead  wise  guy  an'  onto  his  job. 
Tell  youse  about  it?  In  a  secont — in  a  hully  second! 
Just  say  '  gin  fizz  ! '  to  d'  barkeep  an'  I'll  begin. 

"  Never  mind  d'  preeliminaries,  as  d'  story  writers 
says,  but  Joe's  in  jail,  see  !  Joe  win  out  ten  spaces  for 
touchin'  a  farmer  for  his  bundle.  Was  it  a  wad  ?  D' 
roll  Joe  gets  is  big  enough  to  choke  a  cow — 'leven 
t'ousand  plunks,  if  it's  a  splinter. 

"  Wherefore,  as  I  relates,  Joe  gets  ten  years,  an'  is 
layin'  in  jail  while  d'  gezebo,  who's  his  lawyer,  sees 
can  he  woik  d'  high  court  to  give  Joe  a  new  trial. 

"  Joe  don't  feel  no  sort  chirpy  ;  he's  onto  it  d'  high 
court's  dead  sure  to  t'run  him  down.  Then  he  goes  to 
d'  pen  to  do  them  ten  spaces.  An'  onct  there,  wit' 
all  that  time  ahead,  he  sees  his  finish  all  right,  all 
right.  He  might  as  well  be  a  lifer. 

"So  Joe  puts  it  up  he'll  break  himself  out.  Joe's 
goil  comes  every  day  to  see  him.  Say  !  she's  a  bute, 
Joe's  Rag  is;  d'  crooks  calls  her  'Wild  Willie,'  'cause 
152 


JOE  DUBUQUE'S  LUCK  153 

now  an'  then  she  toins  dopey  an*  acts  like  she's  got 
doves  in  her  eaves.  But  anyhow  she's  on  d'  square 
wit'  Joe,  an'  sticks  to  him  like  a  postage  stamp. 

"  Joe  sends  out  d'  woid  be  his  Rag  about  what  he's 
goin'  to  do,  to  d'  push  outside  ;  an'  tells  'em  how  to 
help.  Yes  ;  d'  job  is  put  up  as  fine  as  silk.  Every 
mark  knows  what  he's  to  do. 

"  Now,  here's  d'  trick  dey  toins  ;  here's  how  Joe 
beats  d'  jail  for  good. 

"  It  comes  round  to  d'  night.  Joe's  cell — it's  a  big 
cell,  a  reg'lar  corker,  wit' gas  into  it — is  on  d'  fort' cor 
ridor.  D'  guard  comes  round  at  9  o'clock  orderin'  out 
d' lights.  Joe's  gas  is  boinin'  away  to  beat  d'  band,  an' 
Joe  is  layin'  on  his  bunk. 

"  '  Dowse  d'  glim,  Joe  !  '  says  d'  guard. 

"  '  What  th'  'ell !  '  says  Joe.  '  Dowse  d'  glim,  your 
self,  you  Sheeny  hobo  !  ' 

"  D'  guard  makes  a  bluff  about  what  he'll  do,  an* 
cusses  Joe  out.  All  d'  same  he  unlocks  d'  door  an' 
comes  chasin'  in  to  put  out  Joe's  gas. 

"  Now,  what  does  Joe  do?  As  d'  guard  toins  to  d' 
gas  to  dowse  it,  Joe  sets  up  on  his  bunk,  an'  all  at  onct 
he  soaks  this  gezebo  of  a  guard  wit'  a  rubber  billy  his 
Moll  sneaks  in  to  him  d'  day  before.  Does  he  land  d' 
sucker  ?  Say  !  he  almost  cracks  his  nut,  an'  that's  for 
fair! 

"  D'  guard  drops  an'  in  a  minute  Joe  winds  him  all 
up  tight  in  a  bedtick  rope  he's  made.  Then  he  stop 
pers  his  jaw  an'  t'rows  d'  mucker  on  d'  bunk,  takes  his 
keys,  locks  him  in  d'  cell  an*  goes  galumpin'  off  to  let 
himself  t'rough  d'  doors,  so  he  can  try  a  sprint  for  it. 
Yes,  Joe  makes  some  row  when  he  t'umps  this  party, 
but  d'  captiffs  in  d'  nex'  cells  hears  d'  racket  an'  half 


154  SANDBURRS 

tumbles  to  it ;  an'  so  dey  starts  singin'  '  Rock  of  Ages/ 
an'  makes  a  noise  so  as  to  cover  Joe's  play,  see  !  Oh  ! 
dey  was  some  fly  guys  locked  up  in  that  old  coop. 

"  As  Joe  lines  out  for  d'  doors,  he's  t'inkin'  to  himself, 
how  on  eart'  is  he  goin'  to  make  it  ?  Nit ;  it  wouldn't 
be  no  trouble  to  get  outside  d'  doors  of  what  youse 
might  call  d'  jail  proper.  But  after  that,  Joe's  got  to 
go  t'rough  four  offices  wit'  a  mob  of  dep'ties  into  'em. 
An'  he's  on  it's  goin'  to  be  a  squeak  if  some  of  'em 
don't  recognize  him.  Joe's  mug  was  well  known. 

"  You  know  how  dey  woiks  d'  doors  to  a  jail  ?  Youse 
don't?  It's  this  way.  Joe,  when  he  comes  up,  has  d' 
key  to  d'  inside  door,  which  he  nips  off  d'  guard  as  I 
says  when  he  slugs  him  wit'  d'  billy.  Joe  lets  himself 
into  d'  cage  wit'  that. 

"  Now,  d'  key  to  d'  outside  door  ain't  in  d'  coop  at 
all.  There's  an  old  stiff  of  a  dep'ty  sheriff  planted  out 
side  wit'  that.  As  Joe  opens  d'  inside  door,  he  raps 
on  d'  bars  of  d'  cage  wit'  his  key,  an'  it's  d'  tip  for  this 
outside  snoozer  to  unlock  his  door.  Of  course  he  plays 
Joe  for  d'  guard  comin'  out  from  his  rounds. 

"  It's  at  this  door-slammin'  pinch  where  Joe's  luck 
comes  in,  an'  relieves  him  of  d'  chanct  of  d'  gang  of 
dep'ties  in  d'  office  tumblin'  to  him.  Just  as  Joe  raps 
to  d'  sucker  on  d'  outside  door,  an'  then  lets  himself 
into  d'  cage,  a  gun  goes  off  inside  d'  jail.  It's  Joe's 
guard.  Joe  forgets  to  pinch  d'  pop,  see!  an*  this 
gezebo  gets  his  hooks  onto  it,  all  tied  like  he  is,  an'  bangs 
away  wit'  it  in  his  pockets  so  as  to  warn  d'  gang  Joe's 
loose. 

"  '  That  does  me  for  fair  ! '  t'inks  Joe  when  he  hears 
d'  gun  ;  '  'dey  gets  me  dead  to  rights  !  ' 

"  Say !   it  was  d'   one   trick  that   saves  him !     At  d' 


JOE  DUBUQUE'S  LUCK  155 

bang  of  d'  gun  every  dep'ty  leaps  to  his  trilbys  an' 
comes  chasm'.  D'  outside  mark  has  just  unslewed  his 
door.  He  flings  it  wide  open  an'  scoots  inside  d'  cage. 
Joe  t'rows  d'  inside  door  open — for  Joe's  dead  swift  to 
take  a  hunch  that  way — an'  d'  outside  guard  an'  d'  en 
tire  bunch  of  dep'ties  goes  sprintin'  into  d'jail.  Then 
Joe  locks  'em  all  in  an'  loafs  t'rough  d'  offices  into  d' 
street. 

"  Yes  ;  Joe  knows  where  he's  goin'.  He  toins  into 
d'  foist  stairway  an'  climbs  one  story  to  a  law  office, 
which  d'  crooks  outside  has  fixed  to  be  open,  waitin' 
for  him.  Nixie  ;  d'  law  guy  ain't  in  on  d'  play.  A  dip 
named  Jim  Butts  comes  an'  touts  this  law  sharp  away, 
an'  cons  him  into  goin'  out  six  miles  to  d'  country  to 
draw  d'  last  will  an*  test'ment  of  a  galoot  he  says  is  on 
d'  croak,  an'  can't  wait  for  mornin'.  Yes,  Butts  has  one 
of  his  mob  faked  up  for  sick,  an'  dey  detains  d'  law  guy 
four  hours  makin'  d'  will.  This  stall  of  Butts,  who's 
doin'  d'  sick  act,  sets  up  between  gasps  an*  gives  away 
more'n  twenty  million  dollars  wort'  of  wealt'.  This 
crook  who's  fakin'  sick  is  on  his  uppers  at  d'  time,  an' 
don't  really  have  d'  price  of  beer ;  but  to  hear  him  make 
his  will  that  night,  you'd  say  he  was  d'  richest  ever ; 
d'  Astors  was  monkeys  to  him. 

"As  I  states,  Joe  skips  into  this  lawyer's  office,  d' 
same  bein'  open  for  d'  poipose,  an'  one  of  d'  '  fambly ' 
holdin'  it  down.  While  Joe's  in  there  he  hears  d'  chase 
runnin'  up  an'  down  in  d'  street  below  d'  window. 

"  Not  for  long,  though.  Fifteen  minutes  after  Joe 
is  outside  d'  jug,  one  of  d'  crooks  calls  up  d'  Central 
Office  be  telephone. 

"  '  Who's  talkin'  ?  '  asts  d'  captain  at  d'  Central 
Office. 


156  SANDBURRS 

"  '  It's  Doyle,  lieutenant  o'  police,  Fourt'  Precinct,* 
says  d'  crook  who's  on  d'  wire.  Me  man  on  d'  station 
house  beat  just  reports  Joe  Dubuque  drivin'  west  on 
Detroit  street  wit'  a  horse  an'  buggy.  He  was  on  d' 
dead  run,  lamin'  loose  to  beat  four  of  a  kind.  Send  all 
d'  men  youse  can  spare.' 

"An'  that's  what  d'  captain  at  d'  Central  Office  does. 
In  ten  minutes  every  cop  an'  fly  cop  is  on  d'  chase,  a 
mile  away  from  Joe,  an'  gettin'  furder  every  secont,  see  ! 

"After  a  while  it  settles  down  all  quiet  an'  dead 
about  d'  jail,  an'  d'  little  old  law  office  where  Joe  lies 
buried.  He,  an'  d'  crook  who's  waitin'  for  him,  is 
chinnin'  each  other  in  whispers.  All  d'  time  Joe's  got 
his  lamps  to  d'  window  pipin'  off  d'  other  side  of  d' 
street.  At  last  a  cab  drives  up  opposite  d'  law  office 
an'  stops.  A  w'ite  han'kerchief  shows  flutterin'  be  d' 
window.  It's  Wild  Willie  who's  inside. 

"  Joe's  pal  gets  up  an'  goes  down  to  d'  street.  All's 
clear  an'  he  w'istles  up  to  Joe.  When  he  gets  d' 
office  Joe  sort  of  loafs  down  an'  saunters  over  to  d' 
cab.  D'  door  opens  an'  in  one  move  Joe's  inside,  an' 
d'  nex'  his  arm  is  'round  his  Moll.  She's  all  right,  this 
Wild  Willie  is,  an'  Joe  does  d'  correct  t'ing  to  give  her 
d'  fervent  squeeze. 

"  That's  d'  end.  Joe  Dubuque  runs  clear  away,  goes 
under  cover,  an'  d'  sheriff  never  gets  his  hooks  on  him 
ag'in.  As  Joe  drives  be  d'  jail  he  can  still  hear  them 
captiffs  singin'  '  Rock  of  Ages.' 

"'Say!'  says  Joe  to  Wild  Willie  as  he  toins  her 
mug  to  his  an'  smacks  her  onct  for  luck,  '  I  won't  do  a 
t'ing  but  make  it  a  t'ousand  dollars  in  d'  kecks  of  them 
ducks  who's  doin'  that  song.  I'll  woik  d'  dough  to  'em 
be  some  of  d'  boys,  see  ! ' ' 


BINKS  AND  MRS.   B. 

BlNKS  was  an  excellent  man,  hard-working  and 
sober.  He  made  good  money  and  took  it  home  to  his 
wife  for  her  judgment  to  settle  its  fate  ;  every  dollar  of  it. 
Mrs.  Binks  was  a  woman  among  a  thousand.  When 
taken  separate  and  apart  from  his  wife  and  questioned, 
Binks  said  she  was  a  "  corker."  Binks  declined  all  at 
tempts  at  definition,  and  beyond  insisting  that  Mrs. 
Binks  was  and  would  remain  a  "  corker,"  said  nothing. 

From  what  was  told  of  Mrs.  Binks  by  herself,  it 
would  seem  that  she  was  a  true,  loving  wife  to  Binks, 
and  that,  aside  from  the  duty  ever)/  woman  owed  to  her 
sex  and  the  establishment  of  its  rights  in  all  avenues  of 
life,  she  held  that  with  the  wedding  ring  came  a  list  of 
duties  due  from  a  good  woman  to  her  husband,  which 
could  not  be  avoided  nor  gone  about. 

"  Some  women,"  quoth  Mrs.  B.,  "  worry  their  hus 
bands  with  a  detail  of  small  matters.  A  woman  who 
is  to  be  a  helpmeet  to  her  husband,  such  as  I  am  to 
Binks,  will  be  self-reliant  and  decide  things  for  herself. 
In  the  little  cares  of  life  which  fall  to  her  share,  let  her 
go  forward  in  her  own  strength.  What  is  the  use  of 
adding  her  troubles-  to  his?  If  she  has  plans,  let  her 
execute  them.  If  problems  confront  her,  let  her 
solve  them.  If  she  tells  her  husband  aught  of  the 
thousand  little  enterprises  of  her  daily  home  life,  then 
let  it  be  the  result.  W7hen  success  has  come  to  her, 


158  SANDBURRS 

she  may  call  her  husband  to  witness  the  victory.  Aside 
from  that  she  should  face  her  responsibilities  alone." 

Of  course  Mrs.  B.  did  not  mean  by  all  this  that  she 
would  not  be  open  and  frank  with  Binks,  and  confide  in 
him  if  a  burglar  were  in  the  house,  or  if  the  roof  took 
fire  in  the  night  that  she  would  not  arouse  Binks  and 
mention  it.  What  she  did  mean  was  that  when  it  came 
to  such  things  as  dismissing  the  servant  girl,  the  wife 
should  gird  up  her  loins  and  "  fire  "  the  maiden  single- 
handed,  and  not  ring  her  husband  in  on  a  play,  mani 
festly  disagreeable,  and  likely  to  subject  him  to  great 
remorse. 

It  chanced  recently  that  an  opportunity  opened  like 
a  gate  for  Mrs.  B.  to  illustrate  her  doctrine  that  wives 
should  proceed  in  a  plain  duty  alone,  without  impos 
ing  needless  anxiety  on  the  head  of  the  family. 

Mrs.  Binks  had  decided  to  visit  her  sister  in  Hoboken. 
She  was  to  go  Thursday,  and  Binks,  who  was  paid  his 
sweat-bought  stipend  on  Monday,  was  to  furnish  the 
money  Monday  evening  wherewith  to  make  the  trip. 

It  chanced,  unfortunately,  that  pay-day  this  particular 
week  was  deferred.  The  head  partner  was  sick,  or  out 
of  town  ;  checks  could  not  be  drawn,  or  something  like 
that. 

"  But  your  money  will  come  on  Saturday,  boys,"  said 
the  other  partner. 

Binks  was  obliged  to  wait. 

The  money  was  all  right ;  it  would  be  accurately  on 
tap  Saturday,  so  Binks  took  no  fret  on  that  point. 

But  what  was  he  to  do  about  Mrs.  B.  ?  That  good 
woman  was  to  go  Thursday,  and  in  order  to  organise 
for  the  descent  upon  her  relative  would  need  the 
money — $40 — on  Tuesday.  What  was  Binks  to  do  ? 


BINKS  AND  MRS.  B.  159 

Clearly  he  must  do  something.  He  could  not  ask 
Mrs.  B.  to  put  off  her  trip  a  week  ;  indeed,  his  reluct 
ance  to  take  such  course  came  almost  to  the  point  of 
superstition. 

In  his  troubles  Binks  suddenly  bethought  him  of  a 
gold  watch,  once  his  father's,  with  a  rich  chain  and 
guard  attached.  These  precious  heirlooms  had  been 
given  to  Binks  by  the  elder  Binks'  executor,  and  were 
cherished  accordingly. 

Rather  than  disappoint  Mrs.  B.  the  worthy  Binks  de 
cided,  that  just  for  once  in  his  life  he  would  seek  a 
pawnbroker  and  do  business  with  that  common  relative 
of  all. 

Binks  felt  timid  and  ashamed,  but  the  case  was  ur 
gent.  There  was  no  risk,  for  his  money  would  float 
in  all  right  on  the  tides  of  Saturday.  Binks  would 
then  redeem  these  pledges  from  disgraceful  hock  ;  all 
would  be  well.  Mrs.  B.  would  be  in  Hoboken  on  re 
demption  day,  and  it  would  not  be  necessary  to  tell 
her  anything  about  the  matter.  It  would  save  her 
pain,  and  Binks  bravely  determined  to  keep  the  whole 
transaction  dark. 

Again,  if  he  told  her  he  had  not  been  paid  at  the 
store,  the  brave  woman  would  indubitably  wend  to 
his  employer's  house  and  demand  the  reason  why.  This 
would  be  useless  and  embarrassing.  Therefore,  Binks 
would  say  nothing.  He  would  pawn  the  ancestral 
super,  and  get  it  again  when  his  money  came  in,  and 
his  wife  was  away. 

The  watch  and  its  appertainments  were  snug  in  the 
far  corner  of  a  bureau  drawer;  away  over  and  behind 
Mrs.  B.'s  lingerie.  Binks  had  a  watch  of  his  own,  a 
Waterbury,  with  a  mainspring  as  endless  as  a  chain 


160  SANDBURRS 

pump.  Mrs.  B.  saw,  therefore,  no  reason  why  he  should 
carry  the  gold  watch  of  his  progenitor.  Binks  might 
lose  it.  Mrs.  Binks  strongly  advised  that  it  be  kept 
in  the  bureau  where  it  would  be  safe-^.  and  naturally,  in 
an  affair  of  that  sort  Binks  took  his  wife's  advice. 

Binks  reflected  that  he  must  secure  the  watch  and 
pawn  it  that  night.  To  do  this  he  must  plot  to  get 
Mrs.  B.  out  of  the  house.  Binks  thought  deeply.  At 
last  he  had  it. 

Binks  sent  a  message  home  in  the  afternoon  and 
asked  Mrs.  B.  to  meet  him  in  a  store  down  town  at 
six  o'clock.  Then  he  had  himself  released  at  5:30,  and 
went  hotfoot  homeward. 

The  coast  was  clear  ;  Mrs.  B.  was  down  town  in  def 
erence  to  his  stratagem,  no  doubt  believing  that  Binks 
meditated  soda  water,  or  some  other  delicacy,  as  the 
cause  of  his  sudden  summons  of  the  afternoon.  She 
little  wotted  that  she  was  the  victim  of  deceit.  If  she 
had,  there  would  have  been  woe. 

Binks  rushed  at  once  to  the  bureau  and  secured  the 
treasure.  He  did  not  wait  a  moment,  but  plunged  off 
to  a  store  where  the  three  balls  over  the  door  bore 
testimony  to  the  commerce  within.  Binks  would  ex 
plain  to  Mrs.  B.  on  his  return,  how  he  had  missed  her 
and  so  failed  to  keep  his  date  with  her  down  town. 

The  merchant  of  loans  and  pledges  looked  over 
Binks'  timepiece,  and  then,  as  Binks  requested,  gave 
him  a  ticket  for  it  and  $40.  It  was  to  be  redeemed 
in  thirty  days  or  sooner.  And  Binks  was  to  pay 
$44  to  get  it  again.  Binks  was  very  willing.  Any 
thing  was  wiser  and  better  than  to  permit  Mrs.  B.'s 
visit  to  her  sister  to  be  interrupted. 

When  Binks  got  home  Mrs.  B.  had  already  returned. 


BINKS  AND  MRS.  B.  161 

There  was  a  bad  light  in  her  eye.  She  accepted  Binks' 
excuses  and  explanations  as  to  "how  he  missed  her 
down  town  "  with  an  evil  grace.  She  as  good  as  told 
Binks  that  he  deceived  her ;  that  if  the  phenomenon 
were  treed  she  would  find  another  woman  in  the  case. 

However,  Binks  had  the  presence  of  mind  to  turn 
over  the  $40  he  reaped  on  the  watch  ;  and  as  he  ex 
pressed  it  later: 

"  That  sort  of  hushed  her  up." 

The  next  day  Binks  returned  to  his  labours,  while 
Mrs.  B.  repaired  to  the  marts  to  plunge  moderately  on 
what  truck  she  stood  in  want  of  for  her  trip. 

When  Mrs.  B.  got  back  to  the  house  it  chanced  that 
the  first  thing  she  needed  was  in  the  fatal  drawer.  She 
opened  it. 

Horrors  !     The  watch  was  gone  ! 

There  was  naught  of  hesitation  ;  Mrs.  B.  knew  it  had 
been  stolen.  Anybody  could  see  that  from  the  way 
every  garment  had  been  carefully  laid  back  to  hide  the 
loss. 

What  should  she  do  ?  The  police  must  at  once  be 
notified.  Mrs.  B.  pulled  on  her  shaker  and  scooted  for 
the  police  station.  She  told  her  story  out  of  breath. 
She  left  her  house  at  three  o'clock  and  was  back 
at  four  o'clock,  and  in  that  short  hour  her  home  had 
been  entered  and  looted  of  its  treasures.  Made  to  be 
specific,  Mrs.  B.  said  the  treasures  were  a  watch  and 
chain,  and  described  them. 

"  What  were  they  worth  ?  "  asked  the  sergeant  of  the 
detectives. 

Mrs.  B.  considered  a  bit,  and  then   said  they  would 
be  dog  cheap  at  $1,000.     She  reflected  that  the  sum,  if 
published  in  the  papers,  would  be  a  source  of  pride. 
ii 


162  SANDBURRS 

The  sergeant  of  detectives  told  Mrs.  B.  his  men 
would  look  about  for  her  property,  and  should  they 
hear  of  it  or  find  it  they  would  at  once  notify  her. 

"  You  bet  your  gum  boots !  ma'am,"  said  the  sleuth 
confidently,  "  whatever  crook's  got  your  ticker,  he's 
due  to  soak  it  or  plant  it  some'ers  in  a  week.  Mebby 
he'll  turn  it  over  to  his  Moll.  But  the  minute  we 
springs  it,  ma'am,  or  turns  it  up,  we'll  be  dead  sure  to 
put  you  on  in  a  jiff." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Mrs.  B. 

Then  Mrs.  Binks  went  home  and,  true  to  her  deter 
mination  to  save  Binks  from  unnecessary  worry,  she 
told  him  nothing  of  the  loss  nor  of  her  arrangements 
for  the  watch's  recovery. 

"  What's  the  use  of  bothering  Binks  ? "  she  asked 
herself.  "  All  he  could  do  would  be  to  notify  the 
police,  and  I've  done  that." 

Thursday  came  and  Mrs.  B.  set  forth  for  Hoboken. 
No  notice  had  come  from  the  police.  Binks  was  glad 
to  see  her  go.  He  had  lived  in  fear  lest  she  come 
across  the  departure  of  the  watch.  He  breathed  easier 
when  she  was  gone.  As  for  Mrs.  B.,  as  she  had  not 
heard  from  the  police,  there  was  nothing  to  tell  Binks; 
wherefore,  like  a  self-reliant  woman  who  did  not  be 
lieve  in  making  her  husband  unhappy  to  no  purpose, 
she  left  without  word  or  sign  as  to  her  knowledge  of 
the  watch's  disappearance. 

It  was  Friday ;  ever  an  unlucky  day.  Binks  was 
walking  swiftly  homeward.  Binks  was  thinking  some 
idle  thing  when  a  hand  came  down  on  his  shoulder, 
heavy  as  a  ham. 

"  Hold  on,  me  covey  ;  I  want  you  !  " 

Binks  looked  around,  scared  and  startled.     He  had 


BINKS  AND  MRS.  B.  163 

been    halted    by    a    stocky,    bluff    man    in    citizen's 
clothes. 

"  What  is  it?"  gasped  Binks. 

"  Suttenly,  sech  a  fly  guy  as  you  don't  know  ! "  said 
the  bluff  man,  with  a  glare.  "Well!  never  mind  why 
I  wants  you  ;  I'm  a  detective,  and  you  comes  with  me." 

And  Binks  went  with  him. 

Not  only  that,  Binks  went  in  a  noisy  patrol  wagon 
which  the  detective  rang  for ;  and  it  kept  gonging  its 
way  along  and  attracting  everybody's  attention. 

The  word  went  about  among  his  friends  that  Binks 
was  drunk  and  had  been  fighting. 

"  And  to  think  a  man  would  act  like  that,"  said  one 
lady,  who  knew  Binks  by  sight,  "  just  because  his  wife 
is  away  on  a  visit !  If  I  were  his  wife  I'd  never  come 
back  to  him  !  " 

At  the  station  Binks  was  solemnly  looked  over  by 
the  chief. 

"  He's  the  duck !  "  said  the  chief  at  last.  "  Exactly 
old  Goldberg's  description  of  the  party  who  spouts  the 
ticker.  Where  did  you  collar  him,  Bill?" 

"  I  sees  him  paddin'  along  on  Broadway,"  replied 
the  bluff  man,  "  and  I  tumbles  to  the  sucker  like  a  hod 
of  brick.  I  knowed  he  was  a  sneak  the  first  look  I 
gives ;  and  the  second  I  says  to  meself,  '  he's  wanted 
for  a  watch  !  '  Then  I  nails  him." 

11  Do  you  know  who  he  is?  "  asked  the  chief. 

"  My  name,"  said  Binks,  who  was  recovering  from 
the  awful  daze  that  had  seized  him,  "  my  name  is 
B- 

"  Shet  up  !  "  roared  the  bluff  man.  "  Don't  give  us 
any  guff  !  It'll  be  the  worse  for  you  !  " 

"  I  know   the   mark,"    said   an    officer   looking   on. 


i64  SANDBURRS 

"  His  name  is  *  Windy  Joe,  the  Magsman.'  His  mug's 
in  the  gallery  all  right  enough  ;  number  38,  I  think." 

"  That's  correct !  "  said  the  chief.  "  I  knowed  he 
was  familiar  to  me,  and  I  never  forgets  a  face.  Frisk 
him,  Bill,  and  lock  him  up ! " 

"  But  my  name's  Binks  !  "  protested  our  hero.  "  I'm 
an  innocent  man  !  " 

"  That's  what  they  all  says,"  replied  the  chief.  "  Go 
through  him,  Bill,  and  lock  him  up ;  I  want  to  go  to 
me  grub." 

Binks  was  cast  into  a  dungeon.  Next  door  to  him 
abode  a  lunatic,  who  reviled  him  all  night.  On  the 
blotter  the  ingenuity  of  the  chief  detective  inscribed  : 

"  Windy  Joe,  the  Magsman,  alias  Binks.  House- 
breaking  in  daytime." 

****** 

There  is  scant  need  of  spinning  out  the  agony. 
Binks  got  free  of  the  scrape  some  twelve  hours  later. 
But  it  was  all  very  unfortunate.  He  came  near  dis 
missal  at  the  store,  and  the  neighbours  don't  understand 
it  yet.  They  shake  their  heads  and  say  : 

"  It's  very  strange  if  he's  so  innocent,  why  he  was 
locked  up.  When  the  police  take  a  man,  he's  generally 
done  something." 

"  I'm  not  sorry  a  bit! "  said  Mrs.  B.,  when  she  was 
brought  back  from  Hoboken  on  Saturday  by  a  wire 
the  police  allowed  Binks  to  send  her.  "  And  when  I 
saw  him  with  the  officers,  I  was  as  good  a  mind  to  tell 
them  to  keep  him  as  ever  I  had  to  eat.  To  think  how 
he  deceived  me  about  that  watch,  allowing  me  to  break 
my  heart  with  thoughts  of  it  being  stolen  !  I  guess 
the  next  time  Binks  sneaks  off  to  pawn  his  dead  father's 
watch,  he'll  let  me  know." 


ARABELLA  WELD 
(BY  THE  OFFICE  BOY) 

IT  was  a  chill  Harlem  evening.  The  Undertaker  sat 
in  his  easy  chair  smoking  his  pipe  of  clay.  About  him 
were  ranged  the  tools  and  trappings  of  his  grue 
some  art.  On  trestles,  over  in  the  corner's  gliding 
shadows,  lay  the  remains  he  had  just  been  monkeying 
with. 

At  last,  as  one  who  reviews  his  work,  the  Un 
dertaker  arose,  and  scanned  the  wan  map  of  the 
Departed. 

"  He  makes  a  great  front,"  mused  the  Undertaker. 
"  He  looks  out  of  sight,  and  it  ought  to  fetch 
her." 

Back  to  his  chair  roamed  the  Undertaker.  As  he 
seated  himself  he  touched  a  bell.  The  Poet  of  the 
establishment  glided  dreamily  in.  The  Undertaker, 
not  only  straightened  the  kinks  out  of  corpses  to  the 
Queen's  taste,  but  he  furnished  epitaphs,  and  as  well, 
verses  for  those  grief-bitten.  These  latter  were  to  run 
in  the  papers  with  the  funeral  notice. 

"  Have  youse  torn  off  that  epitaph  for  his  jiblets?  " 
asked  the  Undertaker,  nodding  towards  Deceased. 

"  What  was  it  you  listed  for?  "  asked  the  Poet. 

"  D'  epitaph  for  William  Henry  Weld,"  replied  the 
Undertaker.  The  Poet  passed  over  the  desired  epitaph. 


1 66  SANDBURRS 

WILLIAM  HENRY  WELD. 
(Aged   26  years.) 

His  race  he  win  with  pain  and  sin, 

At  Satan  he  did  mock ; 
St.  Peter  said  as  he  let  him  in : 
"  It's  Willie,  in  a  walk  !  " 

"You're  a  wonder  !  "  cried  the  Undertaker,  when  he 
had  finished  the  perusal,  and  he  gave  the  Poet  the  glad 
hand.  "  Here's  d'  price.  Go  and  fill  your  tank." 

"That  should  win  her,"  reflected  the  Undertaker, 
when  the  poet  had  wended  his  way  ;  "  that  ought  to 
leave  her  on  both  sides  of  d'  road.  What  I've  done  for 
Deceased,  and  that  epitaph  should  knock  her  silly. 
She  shall  be  mine !  " 

II 

PUBLIC  interest  having  been  aroused  in  the  corpse, 
it  may  be  well  to  tell  how  it  became  that  way. 

Deceased  was  William  Henry  Weld.  Five  days  be 
fore  the  opening  of  our  story,  William  donned  his 
skates  and  lined  out  on  one  of  his  periodicals.  For 
four  days  he  debauched  to  beat  four  kings  and  an  ace. 

And  William  had  adventures.  He  paid  a  fine  ;  he 
fell  down  a  coal  hole ;  he  invaded  a  laundry  and  ad 
ministered  the  hot  wallops  to  the  presiding  Chinaman. 
On  the  fourth  day  he  declared  himself  in  on  a  ball  not 
far  from  Sixth  Avenue. 

"  Ah,  there !  "  quoth  William,  archly,  to  a  beautiful 
being  to  whom  he  had  not  been  introduced.  "  Ah, 
there  !  Tricksey  ;  I  choose  youse  for  d'  next  waltz." 

"  Nit ;  not  on  your  life !  "  murmured  the  beautiful 
one. 


ARABELLA  WELD  167 

As  William  Henry  Weld  was  about  to  make  fitting 
response,  a  coarse,  vulgar  person  approached. 

"What  for  be  youse  jimmin'  'round  me  pick?" 
asked  this  person. 

"  That's  d'  stuff,  Barney  !  "  said  the  beautiful  one. 
"  Don't  do  a  t'ing  to  him  !  " 

The  next  instant  William  Henry  Weld  was  cast  into 
outer  darkness. 

"  It's  all  right,  Old  Man  !  "  said  the  friend  who  res 
cued  William  Henry  Weld,  "  I'm  goin'  to  take  youse 
home.  Your  wife  ain't  on  to  me,  an'  I'll  fake  it  I'm  a 
off'cer,  see !  I'll  give  her  d'  razzle  dazzle  of  her  ex 
istence,  an*  square  youse  wit'  her." 

"  It's  Willie  !  "  said  the  friend  to  Arabella  Weld,  as 
he  supported  her  husband  into  the  sitting-room.  "  It's 
Willie,  an'  he's  feelin'  O.  K.  but  weedy.  Me  name, 
madam,  is  Jackson — Jackson,  of  d'  secret  p'lice.  Wil 
lie  puts  himse'f  in  me  hands  as  a  sacred  trust  to  bring 
him  home." 

"  Is  he  sick?  "  moaned  Arabella  Weld,  as  she  began 
to  let  her  hair  down,  preparatory  to  a  yell. 

"  Never  touched  him  !  "  assured  the  friend.  "  Naw  ; 
Willie's  off  his  feed  a  bit.  You  sees,  madam,  Willie 
hired  out  to  a  hypnotist  purely  in  d'  interest  of  science, 
an'  he's  been  in  a  trance  four  days,  see  !  That's  why 
he  ain't  home.  Bein'  in  a  trance,  he  couldn't  send 
woid.  Now  all  he  needs  is  a  rest  for,  say,  a  week. 
Oughtn't  to  let  him  get  out  of  his  crib  for  a  week." 

At  4  o'clock  the  next  morning  William  Henry 
Weld  began  to  see  blue-winged  goats.  Arabella  Weld 
"  sprung"  a  glass  of  water  on  him. 

"Give  it  a  chase!"  shrieked  William  Henry  Weld, 
wildly  waving  the  false  beverage  aside. 


168  SANDBURRS 

In  his  ratty  condition  he  didn't  tumble  to  the  pure 
element's  identity,  but  thought  it  was  one  of  those 
Things. 

At  5  o'clock  A.  M.  William  Henry  Weld  didn't  do  a 
thing  but  perish.  When  the  glorious  sun  again  poured 
down  its  golden  mellow  beams,  the  Undertaker  had 
his  hooks  on  him  and  Arabella  Weld  was  a  widow. 


Ill 

BUT  to  return  to  the  Undertaker,  the  real  hero  of 
our  tale.  We  left  him  in  his  studio  poring  over  the 
epitaph  of  William  Henry  Weld,  while  Departed  re 
hearsed  his  dumb  and  silent  turn  for  eternity  in  the 
corner's  lurking  shadow.  At  last  the  Undertaker 
roused  himself  from  his  reveries. 

"  I  must  to  bed  !  "  he  said  ;  "  it  waxeth  late,  and  to 
morrow  I  propose  for  her  in  wedlock." 

Next  morning  the  Undertaker  arose  refreshed.  He 
had  smote  his  ear  for  full  eight  hours.  He  felt  fit  to 
propose  for  his  life,  let  alone  the  delicate  duke  of 
Arabella  Weld. 

The  Undertaker's  adored  one  was  to  come  at  noon. 
She  wanted  to  size  up  Departed  prior  to  the  obsequies. 

Although  it  was  but  9  o'clock,  the  Undertaker  had 
to  get  a  curve  on  himself  to  keep  his  date  with  Ara 
bella  Weld  at  midday.  He  had  an  invalid  to  measure 
for  a  coffin — it  was  a  riveted  cinch  the  party  would  die 
— and  then  there  was  a  corpse  to  shave  in  the  next 
block.  These  duties  were  giving  him  the  crowd. 

But  our  hero  made  it;  played  every  inning  without 
an  error,  and  was  organised  for  Arabella  Weld  when 
she  arrived. 


ARABELLA  WELD  169 

As  they  stood  together — Arabella  and  the  man  who, 
all  unknown  to  her,  loved  her  so  madly — looking  down 
at  Deceased,  she  could  not  repress  her  admiration. 

"  On  d'  dead !  I  never  saw  Willie  look  so  well,"  she 
said.  "  He's  very  much  improved.  You  must  have 
taken  a  woild  of  pains  wit'  Willie." 

The  Undertaker  was  silent. 

Struck  by  this,  Arabella  Weld  turned  her  full 
lustrous  lamps  on  the  Undertaker  and  saw  it  all.  It 
was  for  her,  the  loving  heart  beside  her  had  toiled  over 
Deceased  like  an  artist  over  a  picture. 

Swift  is  Love,  and  the  Undertaker,  quivering  with 
his  great  passion,  twigged  in  an  instant  that  Arabella 
was  onto  him.  A  vast  joy  swept  his  heart  like  a 
torrent. 

"  I  wanted  him  to  make  a  hit  for  your  sake,"  he 
whispered,  stealing  his  arm  about  her. 

Arabella  softly  put  his  arm  away. 

"  Not  now,"  she  sighed.  "  It  would  be  too  soon  a 
play.  We  must  wait  until  we've  got  Willie  off  our 
hands — we  must  wait  a  year." 

"  Wait  a  year  !  "  and  the  pain  of  it  bent  the  Undertaker 
like  a  willow.  "  Wait  a  year,  dearest !  Now,  what's 
d'  fun  of  that  ?  You  must  take  me  for  a  farmer ! " 
and  his  tones  showed  that  the  Undertaker  was  hurt. 

"  But  in  Herkimer  County  they  wait  a  year,"  faltered 
Arabella,  wistfully. 

"  Sure  !  in  Herkimer  !  "  consented  the  Undertaker; 
"  but  that's  Up-the-state.  A  week  in  Harlem  is  equal 
to  a  year  in  Herkimer.  Let  it  be  a  week,  love  !  " 

"  This  isn't  a  game  for  Willie's  life  insurance  ?  "  and 
great  crystals  of  pain  and  doubt  swam  in  Arabella's 
glorious  eyes. 


I/O  SANDBURRS 

"  Oh,  me  love  !  "  cried  the  Undertaker,  fondly,  yet 
desperately,  "  plant  d'  policy  wit'  Willie !  Send  it 
back  to  d'  company  if  youse  doubts  me,  an*  tell  'em  to 
call  d'  whole  bluff  a  draw." 

The  bit  of  paper,  containing  the  epitaph,  fluttered 
to  the  floor  from  her  nerveless  mits,  her  beautiful 
head  sank  on  the  broad  shoulder  of  the  Undertaker, 
and  her  tears  flowed  unrestrained. 

IV 

ONE  week  had  passed  since  William  Henry  Weld 
was  solemnly  pigeon-holed  for  eternal  reference. 

The  preacher  received  the  couple  in  his  study. 

"  Shall  I  marry  you  with  the  prayer-book,  or  would 
youse  prefer  the  short  cut  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Marry  us  on  a  deck  of  cards,  if  you  choose  ! " 
faltered  Arabella.  Her  eyes  sought  the  floor,  while 
the  tell-tale  blushes  painted  her  lovely  prospectus. 
"  Only  cinch  the  play,  an'  do  it  quick !  " 


THE  WEDDING 

(ANNALS  OF  THE  BEND) 

"  NAW  ;  I'm  on  I'm  late  all  right,  all  right ;  but  I 
couldn't  help  it,  see!  " 

Chucky  was  thirty  minutes  behind  our  hour.  I'd 
been  sitting  in  the  little  bar  in  sickening  controversy 
with  one  of  the  vile  cigars  of  the  place  waiting  for 
Chucky.  For  which  cause  I  was  moved  to  mention 
his  dereliction  sharply. 

"  Sorry  to  keep  an  old  pal  playin'  sol'taire,  wit' 
nothin'  better  to  amuse  him  than  d'  len'th  of  rope 
youse  is  puffin',"  continued  Chucky  in  furtive  excuse, 
"  but  I  was  to  a  weddin'  an'  couldn't  break  away. 
That's  w'y  I've  got  on  me  dress  soote. 

"  Say  !  on  d'  dead !  of  course  I  ain't  in  on  many  nup 
tials  ;  but  all  d'  same  I  likes  to  go.,  I  always  comes 
away  feelin'  so  wise  an'  flossy  an'  cooney.  Why,  I 
don't  know,  unless  it's  'cause  d'  guys  gettin'  hitched 
looks  so  much  like  a  couple  of  come-ons — so  dead  sure 
life  is  such  a  cinch,  see  •  D'  sight  of  confidence  like  one 
sees  at  a  weddin',  be  d'  parts  of  d'  two  suckers  who's 
beiri'  starred,  never  omits  to  make  me  feel  too  cunnin* 
to  live  for  d'  whole  week  after. 

"  Sure  !  this  weddin'  was  a  good  t'ing ;  what  youse 
might  call  d'  real  t'ing ;  an'  it's  a  spark  to  a  rhinestone 
it  toins  out  all  hunk  for  d'  folks  involved.  Who's  d* 
171 


i;2  SANDBURRS 

two  gezebos  who  gets  nex'  to  each  other  ?  D'  groom 
I  cT  boss  gunner  of  one  of  our  war  boats,  an*  d'  skirt  is 
d'  cash  goil  in  d'  anti-Chink  laundry  on  Great  Jones 
street. 

"  An*  say  !  that  little  skirt's  a  wonder,  an'  don't  youse 
forget  it !  She's  good  any  day  for  any  old  t'ing  I've  got  ; 
an'  all  she's  got  to  do  is  just  rap,  an'  she  takes  it,  see  ! 
It  was  me  Rag  sees  d'  goil  foist  one  time  when  she's 
down  be  d'  laundry  puttin'  in  me  t'ree-sheets  for  their 
weekly  dose  of  suds. 

"  Is  me  Rag  an'  me  married  ?  Say !  I  likes  that,  I 
don't  t'ink  !  Youse  is  gettin'  fanciful  in  your  cupolo. 
*  Be  me  little  Bundle  an'  me  married  ? '  says  you. 
Well,  I  should  kiss  a  pig!  Youse  can  take  me  tip  for 
it,  if  we  ain't  man  an'  wife  be  d'  longest  system  d' 
Cat'lic  Choich  could  play — for  me  Rag  told  d'  father 
who  'fficiates  that  we're  out  for  d'  limit — then  all  I  got 
to  stutter  is  there  ain't  a  mug  who's  married  in  d'  en 
tire  city  of  Noo  York. 

"  Cert  !  we're  married ! "  Chucky  went  on  after 
cheering  himself  with  the  tankard  which  the  barkeeper 
placed  before  him.  "  If  youse  had  let  your  lamps 
repose  on  this  horseshoe  scar  over  d'  bridge  of  me 
smeller,  youse  would  have  tumbled  to  d'  fac  wit'out 
astin'. 

"  How  do  I  win  it?  I'm  comin'  up  d'  stairs  like  a 
sucker,  just  followin'  a  difference  of  opinion  between 
me  an'  me  loidy  (I  soaked  her  a  little  one,  an'  that's 
for  fair  !  to  show  her  she's  off  her  trolley  about  d' 
subject  in  dispoote),  when  she  cuts  loose  d'  coal  bucket 
at  me.  Say  !  she  spoiled  me  map  for  a  mont'. 

"  But  to  get  back  to  d'  little  laundry  goil.  Me  Rag, 
as  I  says,  was  in  this  tub-joint  where  d'  goil  woikswit' 


THE  WEDDING  173 

me  linen  one  day  ;  an'  just  as  she  chases  in,  afresh  stiff 
who's  standin'  there  t'run  some  raw  bluff  at  d'  little 
laundry  goil  she  couldn't  stand  for,  see !  an'  she  puts 
up  a  damp  eye  an'  does  d'  weep  act. 

"  This  little  laundry  goil  is  one  of  them  meek,  harm 
less  people — rabbits  is  bull-terriers  to  'em — an'  so 
when  me  onliest  own  beholds  d'  tears  come  chasm 
down  her  nose  at  d'  remarks  of  this  fly  guy,  she  chucks 
me  shirts  in  d'  corner  an'  mounts  him  in  a  hully 
secont. 

"  An'  say  !  me  Rag  can  scrap,  an'  that's  no  dream  ! 
I  don't  want  none  of  it.  When  she  an'  me  has  carried 
d'  conversation  to  d'  point  where  she  takes  out  her 
hairpins,  an'  gives  her  mane  to  d'  breeze,  that's  me  cue 
to  cork.  Youse  can't  get  another  rise  out  of  me  after 
that  :  I  knows  her. 

"  Well  !  me  Rag  lights  into  this  hobo  who's  got  gay 
wit'  d'  little  goil,  an'  when  she  takes  her  hooks  out  of 
his  make-up,  an'  he  goes  surgin'  into  d'  street,  honest ! 
he  looks  like  he's  been  fightin'  a  dog.  Some  lovers  of 
true  sport  who's  there  an'  payin'  attention  to  d'  mill, 
says  this  galoot  wasn't  in  it  wit'  me  Rag.  She  has 
him  on  d'  blink  from  d'  jump  ;  she  win  in  a  loiter. 

"  Takin*  her  part  that  way  makes  d*  little  laundry 
goil  confidenshul  wit*  me  Rag.  It's  about  two  weeks 
later  when  she  sprints  over  an'  tells  Missus  Chuck  (she 
makes  her  promise  to  lay  dead  about  it,  too,  but  still 
she  passes  d'  woid  to  me) — she  tells  me  Rag,  as  I'm 
sayin',  that  she's  in  trouble.  Her  steady,  she  says,  is 
one  of  d'  top  notch  gunners  of  one  of  our  big  boats  ; 
he's  d'  main  squeeze  in  histurrent,  see  !  an'  way  up  in 
d'  paint.  His  boat's  been  layin'  at  d'  Navy  Yard,  an* 
now  he's  ordered  to  sail  for  Cuba  in  a  week  an'  help 


174  SANDBURRS 

straighten  up  d'  Dagoes  we're  havin'  d'  recent  run  in 
wit'.  Meanwhiles,  she  says,  dey  won't  let  her  beloved 
have  shore  leave  ;  an'  neither  dey  won't  stand  for  her 
to  come  aboard  an'  see  him.  There  youse  b,e  !  a  case 
of  dead  sep'ration  between  two  lovin'  hearts. 

"  D'  little  laundry  goil  gives  it  out  cold,  she'll  croak 
if  she  don't  get  to  see  her  Billy  before  he  skates  off  for 
d'  wars.  She  says  she  knows  he's  out  to  be  killed  any 
how.  D'  question  wit'  her  is — what's  she  goin'  to  do  ? 
Dey  won't  let  her  aboard  d'  boat,  an'dey  won't  let  him 
aboard  d'  land ;  now,  what's  d'  soon  move  for  her  to 
make? 

"  Well,  me  Rag — who's  got  a  nut  on  her  for  "cert — 
says  for  her  to  skip  down  to  Washin'ton  an'  go  ag'inst 
d'  Sec'tary  himself. 

"  '  Make  him  a  strong  talk,'  says  me  Rag ;  '  give  him 
a  reg'lar  razzle-dazzle,  an'  he'll  write  youse  a  poiper  to 
them  blokes  aboard  d'  boat  to  let  youse  see  your  Billy.' 

" '  Do  youse  t'ink  for  sure  he  will  ?  '  says  d'  little 
laundry  goil. 

"  '  Why,  it's  a  walkover  ! '  says  me  Rag.  '  If  he  toins 
out  a  hard  game,  give  him  d'  tearful  eye,  see !  an* 
cough  a  sob  or  two,  an'  he'll  weaken  !  You  can't  miss 
it,'  says  me  ownliest ;  '  it's  easy  money.' 

"  But  d'  little  goil  was  awful  leary  of  d'  play. 

"  '  Washin'ton  is  so  far  away,'  she  says. 

" 4  It's  like  goin'  to  Harlem,'  says  me  Rag.  '  All 
youse  has  to  do  to  go,  is  to  take  some  sandwidges  an' 
apples  to  sort  o'  jolly  d'  trip,  an'  then  climb  onto  d' 
cars  an'  go.  When  d'  Con.  comes  t'rough,  pass  him 
your  pasteboard,  see  !  an'  if  any  of  them  smooth  marks 
try  to  make  a  mash,  t'run  'em  down  an'  t'run  'em  hard. 
I'll  go  over  an'  do  your  stunt  at  d'  laundry,  so  that 


THE  WEDDING.  17$ 

needn't  give  youse  a  scare.  An'  be  d'.way!  if  that 
lobster  I  win  from  d'  other  day  shows  up,  I'll  make 
a  monkey  of  him  ag'in.  I  didn't  spend  enough  time 
wit'  him  on  d'  occasion  of  our  mix-up,  anyway.' 

"  At  last  d'  little  laundry  goil  makes  d'  brace  of  her 
life.  She's  so  bashful  an'  timid  she  can't  live;  but 
she's  dead  stuck  on  seein'  her  Billy  before  he  sails 
away,  an'  it  gives  her  nerve.  As  I  says,  she  takes  me 
Rag's  steer  an'  skins  out  for  d'  Cap'tal. 

"An'  what  do  youse  t'ink  ?  D'  old  mut  who's 
Sec'tary  won't  chin  wit'  her.  Toins  her  down  cold,  he 
does ;  gives  her  d'  grand  rinky-dink  wit'out  so  much  as 
findin'  out  what's  her  racket  at  all. 

"  At  d'  finish,  however,  d'  little  goil  lands  one  of  d' 
push — he's  a  cloik  in  d'  office,  I  riggers — an'  he  hears 
her  yarn  between  weeps,  an*  ups  an'  makes  a  pass  or 
two,  an'  she  gets  d'  writin'.  It  says  to  toin  Billy  loose 
every  afternoon  till  d'  boat  pulls  out. 

"  Say  !  him  an'  d'  little  goil,  when  she  gets  back,  was 
as  happy  as  a  couple  of  kids  ;  dey  has  more  fun  than  a 
box  of  monkeys.  On  d'  level !  I  was  proud  of  me  Rag 
for  floor  managin'  d'  play.  She  wasn't  solid  wit'  Billy 
an'  d'  little  goil !  Oh,  no  ! 

"  That's  how  me  an'  me  loidy  was  in  on  this  weddin' 
to-day  wit'  hot'  trilbys.  Me  Rag's  *  It  '  wit'  d'  little 
goil ;  youse  can  gamble  on  that ! 

"  Of  course  d'  war's  over  now,  an'  two  weeks  ago  d' 
little  goil's  Billy  comes  home.  An'  what  wit'  pay,  an' 
what  wit'  prize  money,  he  hits  d'  Bend  wit'  a  bundle 
of  d'  long  green  big  enough  to  make  youse  t'row  a  fit, 
an'  he  ain't  done  a  t'ing  but  boin  money  ever  since. 

"  Nit ;  it  ain't  much  of  a  story,  but  d'  whole  racket 
pleases  me  out  o'  sight,  see !  Considerin'  d'  hand  me 


176  SANDBURRS 

Rag  plays,  when  I'm  at  that  weddin'  to-day  I  feels  like 
a  daddy  to  Billy  an'  d'  little  goil.  On  d'  level !  I  feels 
that  chesty  about  it,  that  when  d'  priest  is  goin'  to 
bat  an'  says,  '  Is  there  any  duck  here  to  give  d'  bride 
away  ?  '  I  cuts  in  on  d'  game  wit'  d'  remark,  *  I  donates 
d'  bride  meself.'  I  s'pose  I  was  struck  dopey,  or 
nutty,  or  somethin'. 

"  But  me  Rag  fetches  me  to  all  c'rrect.  She  clinches 
her  mit  an'  whispers  : 

"  Let  me  catch  youse  makin*  another  funny  break 
like  that  an'  I'll  cop  a  sneak  on  your  neck.'  An'  then 
she  stands  there  chewin'  d'  quiet  rag  an'  pipin'  me  off 
wit*  an  eye  of  fire.  '  Such  an  old  bum  as  youse,'  she 
says,  *  is  a  disgrace  to  d'  Bend.'  " 


POINSETTE'S  CAPTIVITY 

THIS  is  a  tale  of  last  August.  Poinsette  was  to  be  left 
alone  for  four  weeks.  Mrs.  Poinsette  had  settled  on 
Cape  May  as  a  good  thing  for  the  hot  spell.  She  would 
hie  her  thither  and  leave  Poinsette  to  do  his  worst 
without  her. 

Poinsette  did  not  care.  He  bravely  told  Mrs.  P.  she 
needed  an  outing.  The  ozone  and  the  salty,  ocean 
breeze  would  do  her  good.  So  he  encouraged  Cape 
May,  and  bid  Mrs.  P.  go  there  by  all  means. 

It  was  decided  by  the  Poinsettes  discussing  Cape 
May  to  have  Poinsette  room  up  town  while  Mrs.  P. 
was  thus  Cape  Maying.  The  Poinsette  house  in  the 
suburbs  might  better  be  locked  up  during  Mrs.  P.'s 
absence  from  the  city.  It  would  be  more  economical ; 
indeed,  it  was  not  esteemed  safe  to  leave  the  Poinsette 
lares  and  penates  to  the  unwatched  ministrations  of 
the  Congo  who  performed  in  the  Poinsette  kitchen.  It 
would  be  wiser  to  dismiss  the  servant,  bolt  and  bar  the 
house,  obtain  Poinsette  apartments,  and  let  him  browse 
for  food  among  the  bounteous  restaurants  of  the  city. 

Poinsette  found  a  room  to  suit  in  a  house  on  West 
8/th  Street.  It  was  one  of  a  long  row  of  houses. 
Poinsette  reported  his  victory  in  room-hunting  to  Mrs. 
P.  Poinsette  was  now  all  right,  and  ready  for  what 
might  come.  Mrs.  P.  might  bend  her  course  to  Cape 
May  without  further  hesitation. 

Mrs.  P.  was  glad  to  learn  of  Poinsette's  apartment 
12  177 


i/8  SANDBURRS 

success.  She  went  out  and  looked  at  his  find  to  make 
sure  that  Poinsette  would  be  comfortable.  Incident 
ally,  Mrs.  P.  kept  her  eye  about  her,  to  note  whether 
the  boarding-house  books  carried  any  pretty  girls. 
Mrs.  P.  did  not  care  to  have  Poinsette  too  comfortable. 

There  were  no  pretty  girls.  Mrs.  P.  approved  the 
selection.  The  very  next  day  she  kissed  Poinsette 
good-bye  and  rumbled  and  ferried  to  the  station,  from 
which  arena  of  smoke  and  noise  a  train  leaped  forth 
like  a  greyhound  and  bore  her  away  to  Cape  May. 

Poinsette  did  not  accompany  his  spouse  to  the 
station.  Ten  years  before  he  would  have  done  this, 
but  experience  had  taught  him  that  Mrs.  P.  could  care 
for  herself.  Therefore  he  remained  behind  to  fasten  up 
the  house.  Soberly  he  went  about  locking  doors,  and 
fastening  windows,  and  thinking  rather  sadly, — as  all 
husbands  so  deserted  do, — of  the  long,  lonely  months 
before  him.  At  last  all  was  secure,  and  Poinsette 
turned  the  key  in  the  big  front  door  and  came  away. 

Poinsette  did  not  feel  like  work  that  afternoon,  or 
the  trifling  fragment  of  it  that  was  left  after  Mrs.  P. 
had  wended  and  he  had  locked  up  the  house.  He 
bought  a  few  good  books  and  several  of  the  more  solid 
periodicals.  They  would  serve  during  the  weary  nights 
while  Mrs.  P.  was  away  at  the  Cape.  These  Poinsette 
sent  to  his  rooms,  and,  as  it  was  growing  six  o'clock 
now,  he  turned  into  Sherry's  for  his  dinner. 

Just  where  Poinsette  went  that  evening  following 
Sherry's,  and  what  he  saw  and  did,  and  who  assisted 
at  such  enterprises  as  he  embarked  in,  would  be  nothing 
to  the  present  point  and  may  be  skipped.  They  are 
the  private  affairs  of  Poinsette,  and  not  properly  the 
subjects  of  a  morbid  curiosity.  However,  lest  Mrs.  P. 


POINSETTE'S  CAPTIVITY  179 

see  this  and  argue  aught  herefrom  to  feed  distrust,  it 
should  be  said  that  Poinsette  saw  nobody,  did  nothing, 
went  no  place  unbecoming  an  officer  and  a  gentleman. 

It  was  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  when  Poinsette, 
the  sole  passenger  aboard  a  foaming  night-liner,  toiled 
through  the  Park  and  bore  away  for  his  new  abode. 
Poinsette  stopped  the  faithful  night-liner  two  blocks 
from  the  door  and  went  forward  on  foot.  Poinsette 
did  not  care  to  clatter  ostentatiously  to  his  rooms  at 
four  in  the  morning  the  first  day  he  inhabited  them. 

Poinsette  found  the  house  without  trouble,  and 
stepped  lightly  to  the  door.  He  put  the  pass-key  his 
landlady  had  bestowed  upon  him  in  the  lock,  but  it 
would  not  turn.  The  bolt  would  not  yield  to  his  woo 
ing.  Do  all  he  might,  and  work  he  never  so  wisely, 
there  had  sprung  up  a  misunderstanding  between  key 
and  lock  which  would  not  be  reconciled.  Poinsette 
could  not  get  "  action ;  "  the  sullen  door  still  barred 
him  from  his  bed. 

At  last  Poinsette  gave  up  in  despair.  He  might 
ring  the  bell  and  arouse  the  house ;  but  he  hesitated. 
It  was  his  first  day  ;  the  hour  needed  apology.  Poin 
sette  thought  it  would  be  better  to  walk  gently  to 
a  hotel  and  abide  for  the  remainder  of  the  night.  He 
would  solve  this  incompatibility  of  key  and  lock  the 
next  afternoon. 

Poinsette  turned  away  and  started  softly  for  the 
street.  As  he  did  so  a  policeman  stepped  from  be 
hind  a  tree  and  stopped  him.  The  policeman  had 
been  watching  Poinsette  for  five  minutes. 

"  Wot  was  you  a-doin'  at  the  door5  "  he  arked. 

Poinsette,  in  a  low,  hurried  voice,  explained.  He 
didn't  care  to  awaken  his  landlady  by  a  tumult  of 


1 8o  SANDBURRS 

talk,  and  have  that  excellent  woman  discover  him  in 
the  hands  of  the  law. 

"  If  your  key  don't  work,"  said  the  policeman,  "  why 
don't  you  ring  the  bell  ?  " 

Poinsette  cleared  up  that  mystery.  The  officer  was 
not  satisfied. 

"To  be  free  with  you,  my  man,"  he  said,  seizing 
Poinsette's  collar,  "  I  think  you're  a  burglar.  If  that's 
your  boarding-house  you're  goin'  in.  If  it  isn't,  you're 
goin'  to  the  station." 

Then  the  policeman,  with  one  hand  wound  about  in 
Poinsette's  neckwear,  made  trial  of  the  key  with  the 
other  hand.  The  effort  was  futile.  The  lock  was 
obdurate  ;  the  key  was  stranger  to  it.  Then  the  blue 
guardian  of  the  city's  slumbers  stepped  back  a  pace 
and  took  a  mighty  pull  at  the  door-bell.  It  was 
a  yank  which  brought  forth  a  wealth  of  jingle  and 
ring. 

Poinsette  was  glad  of  it.  He  had  grown  desperate 
and  wanted  the  thing  to  end.  Bad  as  it  was,  it  would 
be  better  to  face  his  landlady  than  be  locked  up  in  a 
burglar's  cell.  Poinsette  was  resigned,  therefore,  when 
a  second-story  window  lifted  and  a  night-capped  head 
was  made  to  overhang  the  sill  and  blot  its  silhouette 
against  the  star-lit  sky. 

"  Be  you  the  landlady  ?  "  asked  the  policeman. 

"  Yes,  I  am ! "  quoth  the  night-cap  in  a  snappy, 
snarly  way.  "  What  do  you  want  ?  "  This  with  added 
sourness. 

"  This  party  says  his  name  is  Poinsette  and  that  he 
rooms  here,"  replied  the  officer. 

"  No  such  thing  !  "  retorted  the  night-cap.  "  No 
such  man  rooms  here.  Don't  even  know  the  name !  " 


POINSETTE'S  CAPTIVITY  181 

Then  the  window  came  down  with  a  grievous  bang. 
It  was  as  if  it  descended  on  Poinsette's  heart. 

"  You're  a  crook !  "  said  the  policeman,  "  and  now 
you  come  with  me." 

Poinsette  essayed  to  explain  that  the  night-cap  was 
not  his  landlady  ;  that  he  had  made  a  mistake  in  the 
house.  The  policeman  laughed  in  hoarse  scorn  at  this. 

"  D'ye  think  I'm  goin'  all  along  the  row,  yankin' 
door-bells  out  by  the  roots  on  such  a  stiff  as  you're 
givin'  me  ?" 

That  was  the  reply  of  the  policeman  to  Poinsette's 
pleadings  to  try  next  door. 

Poinsette  was  led  sadly  off,  with  the  grip  of  the  law 
on  his  collar.  At  the  station  he  was  searched  and 
booked  and  bolted  in.  On  the  hard  plank,  which  made 
the  sole  furnishings  of  his  narrow  cell,  Poinsette  threw 
himself  down ;  not  to  sleep,  but  to  give  himself  to 
bitter  consideration  of  his  fate. 

As  Poinsette  sat  there  waiting  for  the  sun  to  rise 
and  friends  to  come  to  his  rescue,  the  station  clock 
struck  five.  It  rang  dismally  in  the  cell  of  Poinsette. 


At  Cape  May,  clocks  of  correct  habits  were  also  tell 
ing  the  hour  of  five.  Mrs.  P.  was  not  yet  asleep.  The 
vigorous  aroma  of  the  ocean  swept  the  room.  The 
half-morning  was  beautiful ;  Mrs.  P.,  loosely  garbed, 
sat  in  an  easy-chair  at  the  window  and  enjoyed  it. 

"  I  wonder  what  Poinsette's  been  doing,"  said  Mrs.  P. 
to  herself ;  and  there  was  a  colour  of  jealousy  in  the  tone. 
Then  Mrs.  P.  snorted  as  in  contempt.  "  I'll  warrant  he's 
been  having  a  good  time,"  she  continued.  "  This  idea 
that  married  men  when  their  wives  are  away  for  the 
summer  have  a  dull  time,  never  imposed  on  me." 


TIP  FROM  THE  TOMB 
CHAPTER  I 

T.  JEFFERSON  BENDER  was  a  doctor;  that  is,  he  was 
not  a  real,  legal  doctor  as  yet,  but  he  was  a  hard  student, 
and  looked  hopefully  toward  a  day  when,  in  accordance 
with  the  statutes  in  such  cases  made  and  provided,  he 
would  be  cantered  through  the  examination  chute,  and 
entitled  to  write  "  M.  D.  "  following  his  name,  with  all 
that  it  implied. 

Each  morning  T.  Jefferson  Bender  arose  with  the 
lark,  and,  seizing  his  dissecting  knife,  plunged  into 
whatever  subject  was  spread  before  him.  In  the  after 
noon  he  attended  lectures,  bending  a  hungry  ear  and 
watching  with  eager  eye,  while  the  lecturer,  in  illustra 
tion  of  his  remarks,  tortured  poor  people,  free  of  charge. 
At  night,  when  the  day's  carvings,  and  listenings,  and 
lockings  were  over,  T.  Jefferson  Bender  sat  in  his 
easy  chair  and  peered  down  the  long  aisle  of  coming 
time. 

The  world  was  bright  to  the  glance  of  T.  Jefferson 
Bender;  the  future  full  of  promise.  In  his  musings  he 
saw  himself  striding  towards  surgical  fame  and  riches 
over  a  pathway  strewn  with  the  amputational  harvest 
of  his  skill.  He  filled  the  hereafter  with  himself  routing 
disease  ;  cutting  down  deadly  maladies  as  a  farmer  might 
the  mullein-stalk ;  driving  before  him  bacteria  and 

bacilli  in  herds,  droves,  schools  and  shoals.     T.  Jefferson 
182 


TIP  FROM  THE  TOMB  183 

Bender  was  a  happy  man,  and  his  forehead  was  already, 
in  his  imaginings,  kissed  by  the  rays  of  a  dawning  pro 
fessional  prosperity. 


CHAPTER  II 

T.  JEFFERSON  BENDER  allowed  himself  but  one 
relaxation.  He  was  from  Lexington,  and  had  a  true 
Kentuckian's  love  for  horseflesh.  Thus  it  was  that  he 
patronised  the  races,  and  was  often  seen  at  Morris  Park, 
where  he  prevailed  from  a  seat  in  the  grand-stand. 
Here,  casting  off  professional  dignity  as  he  might  a 
garment,  T.  Jefferson  Bender  whooped  and  howled  and 
hurled  his  hat  on  high,  as  race  following  race  swept  in. 

At  intervals  T.  Jefferson  Bender  was  carried  to  such 
heights  of  madness  as  "  playing  the  horses."  And  then 
it  was  he  suffered  those  vicissitudes  which  are  chronicled 
colloquially  under  the  phrase  of  "  getting  it  in  the 
neck." 

CHAPTER  III 

IT  was  the  day  of  the  great  race.  The  Morris  Park 
grand-stand  was  reeling  full.  The  quarter  stretch  was 
crowded  with  Democrats  and  Republicans  and  Mug 
wumps,  who,  laying  aside  political  hatreds  for  a  day, 
had  come  to  see  the  races.  The  horses  were  backing 
and  plunging  in  the  grasp  of  rubbers  and  stable  minions, 
while  the  gay  jockeys,  with  their  mites  of  saddles  on 
their  left  arms,  were  being  weighed  in. 

Suddenly,  a  cry  of  terror  rent  the  air.  Otero,  ahead- 
strong  beauty,  had  leaped  upon  the  neck  of  Paddy  the 
Pig,  a  horse  rubber,  and  borne  him  to  the  earth.  Paddy 


1 84  SANDBURRS 

the  Pig's  neck  was  severely  wrenched,  so  the  crowd  said. 
As  the  accident  occurred,  the  victim  fainted. 

"  Is  there  a  doctor  present?"  shouted  one  of  the 
race  judges,  appealing  to  the  grand-stand. 

T.  Jefferson  Bender  arose  from  where  he  sat,  walked 
over  seventeen  men  and  women,  and  leaped  upon  the 
stretch. 

"  I  am  here,"  observed  T.  Jefferson  Bender,  while 
his  eye  lighted  and  his  nostrils  expanded  with  the 
ardour  of  a  great  resolve. 

T.  Jefferson  Bender  bent  above  Paddy  the  Pig  and 
felt  his  pulse. 

"  He  lives  !  "  muttered  T.  Jefferson  Bender. 

Then  he  called  for  whiskey. 

At  the  magical  words,  Paddy  the  Pig  languidly  opened 
his  eyes,  while  a  flush  dimly  painted  his  cheek. 

"  Doc,  you  have  saved  my  life  !  "  said  Paddy  the  Pig. 

"  I  have,"  said  T.  Jefferson  Bender,  willing  to  be  im 
pressive.  "  I  have  saved  your  life." 

"  Doc,"  said  Paddy  the  Pig  in  a  weak,  fluttering 
voice,  "  I  am  only  a  horse  rubber,  but  I  will  make  you 
rich.  Play  Skylight  to  win,  Doc  ;  Skylight !  It's  a 
tip  from  the  tomb  !  " 

"  It's  a  tip  from  the  tomb  !  "  said  T.  Jefferson  Bender 
reverently,  "  what  are  the  odds  ?  " 

"  It's  a  20-to-i  shot,  Doc.  Play  it.  You  will  thus 
be  paid  for  what  you've  done  for  me." 


CHAPTER  IV 

THAT  night  T.  Jefferson  Bender  stood  in  a  pawnshop. 
The  flickering  gaslight  shone  on  mandolins,  pistols, 


"T.    JEFFERSON    BENDER    HAD    PLAYED   SKYLIGHT." — Pagt'    I$j- 


TIP  FROM   THE  TOMB  185 

watches,  and  clothing,  which  had  suffered  the  ordeal  of 
the  spout.  T.  Jefferson  Bender  was  dusty  and  footsore. 
He  had  walked  from  Morris  Park,  and  was  now  about 
to  pawn  his  watch  for  food. 


CHAPTER  V 
T.  JEFFERSON  BENDER  had  played  Skylight. 


BRIDGY  McGUIRE 
(ANNALS  OF  THE  BEND) 

"  WHY,  yes,"  responded  Chucky  readily  enough, 
"  there's  choiches  of  all  sorts,  same  as  there's  folks,  see  ! 
Some  does  good  an'  then  ag'in  there's  others  that  ain't 
so  warm." 

It  was  rude,  cold  weather.  Because  of  the  bluster 
and  the  freezing  air  without,  Chucky  had  abandoned 
his  customary  ale  for  hot  Scotches.  These  and  the  bar 
room's  pleasant  heat,  in  contrast  with  the  chill  and 
gusts  of  the  street,  served  to  unfold  Chucky 's  conver 
sational  powers.  He  even  waxed  philosophical. 

"  For  that  matter,"  continued  Chucky,  critically, 
"  there's  lots  of  good  lyin'  'round  loose.  Sometimes 
it's  dead  hard  to  find,  but  it's  there  all  d'  same,  if  youse 
is  fly  enough  to  pipe  it  off.  An'  it  ain't  all  m  d'  choiches 
neither.  As  I  states,  I'm  d'  last  mug  to  go  knockin'  d' 
choiches,  but  dey  ain't  got  no  corner  on  d'  good  of  this 
woild.  There  is  others.  D'  choices  ain't  d'  only 
apple  on  d'  tree.  Nor  yet  d'  onliest  gas  jet  on'd  chan 
delier. 

"  Say  !  "  Chucky  went  on,  after  a  further  taste  of  the 
hot  Scotch,  "  on  d'  level !  I'm  onto  achoich  what's  got 
nex'  to  a  bakery,  an'  what  do  youse  t'ink  ?  Each  night 
d'  bakery  don't  do  a  t'ing  but  give  every  poor  hobo  who 
fronts  up  to  d'  window  a  loaf  of  bread.  That's  for  fair  ! 
an*  d'  gezebo  who  runs  d'  bakery  is  a  Dutch  Sheeny  at 
186 


BRIDGY  McGUIRE  187 

that.  Would  youse  get  bread  if  you  was  to  go  chasin' 
nex'  door  to  d'  choich  ?  Nit ;  t'ree  times  nit !  If  you 
was  to  go  slammin'  'round  d!  choich  makin'  a  talk  for 
a  hand-out,  all  youse  would  get  would  be  d'  collar,  see ! 

"  Onct  a  week  that  sanchewary  would  fill  youse  to  d' 
chin  on  chimes ;  oh,  yes !  but  no  buns ;  not  on  your 
life!  Chimes  is  d' limit  wit' that  choich.  An' say  !  it's 
got  money  to  boin  !  Bread  at  d'  bakery !  chimes  at  d' 
choich  !  that's  how  dey  line  t'ings  up  at  that  corner. 
An'  I'm  here  to  say  as  between  d'  brace  of  'em,  when 
it  gets  down  to  d'  cold  proposition,  '  W'ich  does  d'  most 
good  ? '  d'  bakery  can  lose  that  temple  of  worship  in  a 
walk.  I  strings  me  money  on  d'  bakery.  An'  don't 
youse  forget  it  !  " 

Chucky  was  quite  exhausted  after  this  outburst.  He 
revived,  however,  with  the  hot  Scotch,  which  restored 
him  mightily. 

"  Onct,"  resumed  Chucky,  "  about  ten  years  ago,  this 
is,  I  was  where  a  w'ite  choker  was  takin'  up  a  c'llection. 
An'  what  do  youse  figure  he  wants  it  for  ?  I'm  a  black 
Republican  if  he  didn't  break  it  off  on  us  that  he  was 
out  to  make  up  a  wad  so  his  congregation  could  cel'brate 
d'  fortieth  birt'-day  of  gold  in  Californy.  Don't  that 
knock  youse  silly?  D'  w'ite  choker  says  as  how  he 
comes  from  Californy  an'  him  an'  his  push  is  goin'  to 
toin  themselfs  loose,  see  !  an  whoop  it  up  because  dey 
found  gold  forty  spaces  back.  It  made  me  tired, 
honest ! 

"  '  Why  !  '  I  says  to  this  pulpit  t'umper,  just  like 
that,  '  Why !  don't  youse  preach  that  gold  is  d'  roots 
of  evil?  An'  now  youse  is  framin'  up  a  blow-out  over 
findin'  it !  It  looks  like  a  dead  gauzy  bluff  to  me.' 


1 88  SANDBURRS 

"  What  does  d'  w'ite  choker  mark  do  ?  Just  gives 
me  d'  dead  face  an'  ignores  me. 

"  Youse  permits  yourself  to  be  amazed  at  me  pickin' 
this  guy  up  about  gold  bein'  d'  seeds  of  evil,"  observed 
Chucky,  with  a  touch  of  severity.  This  was  in  response 
to  some  syllable  of  admiration  I'd  let  fall.  "  Youse 
needn't  mind.  I'll  give  youse  a  tip  that  in  me  yout' 
I  was  d'  star  poople  of  d'  Sunday  school  dey  opens 
long  ago  at  d'  Five  Points.  That's  straight  goods,  see  ! 
I  was  d'  soonest  kid  at  me  lessons  that  ever  comes 
down  d'  pike,  an'  d'  swiftest  ever.  I  has  all  d'  other 
kids  on  d'  blink.  I  win  a  test'ment  onct  from  d'  out 
stretched  mits  of  d'  entire  push,  bar  d'  Bible  class,  for 
loinin'  more  verses  be  heart  than  anybody.  I  downs 
every  kid  in  d'  bunch.  I  made  'em  look  like  a  lot  of 
suckers  !  "  and  Chucky  paused  in  approving  meditation 
over  the  victories  of  boyhood  days. 

"  Still  d'  choiches  does  dead  lots  o'  good,"  asserted 
Chucky,  coming  back  to  the  subject.  "  There's  d'  case 
of  Bridgy  McGuire.  She  makes  two  ort'ree  trips  to  d' 
Cat'lic  joint  over  on  Mott  Street,  an'  all  she  loins,  so  it 
sticks  in  her  frizzes,  is :  '  Honour  dy  father  an'  dy 
mother,'  see !  An*  Bridgy  says  herself  it's  that  what 
brings  her  back  after  she's  been  run  away  from  home 
for  six  years.  Bridgy  shows  up  just  in  time  to  straighten 
out  d'  game  for  d'  McGuires  at  that.  D'  fam'ly  was  on 
d'  hog  for  fair  when  Bridgy  gets  there. 

"  Nixie,  d'  yarn  ain't  so  long,  nor  yet  so  scarce ;  for 
that  matter,  there's  lots  more  like  'em.  In  d'  foist  place, 
this  mark,  McGuire,  Bridgy 's  dad,  ain't  so  bad.  Mac's 
a  bricklayer  ;  but  d'  loose  screw  wit'  him  was  that  he 
ain't  woikin'  in  d'  winter;  an'  as  durin'  d'  summer  he 
gen'rally  lushes  more  whiskey  than  he  lays  bricks,  an* 


BRIDGY  McGUIRE  189 

is  more  apt  to  hit  d'  bottle  than  a  job,  d'  McGuire 
household's  more  or  L.SS  on  d'  bum,  see ! 

"  I  remembers  Bddgy  when  she's  so  little  a  yard 
makes  a  frock  for  her.  She  was  a  long,  slim,  bony  kid, 
wit'  legs  on  her  like  she's  built  to  pick  hops  ;  an'  if 
Bridgy  shows  anyt'ing  in  her  breed  when  young,  it's  a 
strong  streak  of  step-ladder. 

"  In  her  kid  days  I  wasn't  noticin'  Bridgy  much  ;  d' 
fact  was,  then  as  now,  I'm  havin'  troubles  of  me  own. 
Her  mommer,  who  was  pretty  near  an  even  break  wit' 
Mac  himself  when  it  comes  to  hittin'  up  d'  booze, 
every  now  an'  then  t'run  back  to  d'  religious  days  of  her 
own  yout',  an'  it's  durin'  one  of  these  Bible  fits  of  d' 
old  woman  that  she  saws  Bridgy  off  on  d'  choich,  where 
I  speaks  of  her  gettin'  d'  hunch  from  d'  priest,  or  some 
body,  that  it's  d'  fly  caper  if  youse  is  out  to  finish 
wit'  d'  heavenly  squeeze,  to  honour  your  father  an' 
mother. 

"  As  I  relates,  I  ain't  dead  clear  about  Bridgy  when 
she's  young  an'  little,  except  it  does  come  chasin'  back 
to  me  that  she's  dead  gone  on  dancin'  an'  knock-about 
woik.  Onct  when  me  an'  d'  McGuires  is  livin'  on  d' 
same  floor,  I  hears  a  racket  in  d'  hall  like  some  sucker 
is  tryin'  to  come  downstairs  wit'  a  tool  chest.  Nat 
urally,  I  shoves  me  nut  outside  me  door  to  tell  him 
to  go  chase  himself.  But  it's  only  Bridgy — mebby  she's 
twelve  at  d'  time — practyesing.  I  keeps  me  lamps  onto 
her  awhile,  an'  she  never  tumbles  I'm  there  ;  for  I  don't 
say  nothin',  but  lays  dead.  Bridgy  is  doin'  han'-stan's, 
cartwheels,  backbends,  fallin'splits  an'  all  sorts  of  funny 
stunts. 

"  '  Is  this  an  accident,  or  does  you  mean  it  ?  '  I  asts 
at  last,  as  Bridgy  winds  up  a  cartwheel  wit'  a  split  that 


190  SANDBURRS 

looks  like  it's  goin'  to  leave  her  on  hot*  sides  of  d'  pas 
sage  way. 

"  *  I'm  doin'  a  spread/  says  Bridgy,  '  same  as  d'  Bone 
less  Wonder  at  Miner's,  see!'  An'  here  she  lays  her 
little  cocoa  down  on  her  knee  to  show  she's  comfortable, 
an'  dead  easy  in  her  mind. 

"  Wit'out  keepin'  exact  tabs  on  Bridgy,  I'm  able  to 
state  that  as  soon  as  she's  big  enough  she  goes  to  woik  ; 
an'  at  one  time  an'  another  she  sells  poipers,  does  a 
toin  in  a  vest  factory,  or  some  other  sweat  shop  ;  an' 
at  last,  when  she's  about  seventeen,  she's  model  in  a 
cloak  joint.  She  gets  along  all  right,  all  right  for  a 
space  or  so,  when  one  day  d'  old  grey  guy  who  owns  d' 
woiks  takes  it  into  his  nut  he'll  float  into  Bridgy's 
'fections. 

"  '  Love  youse  ! '  says  Bridgy,  to  this  aged  stiff  ;  'old 
gent,  you're  dopey  !  If  youse  give  way  to  a  few  more 
dreams  like  that,  your  folks'll  put  you  in  d'  booby 
house.  Yous'll  be  in  Bloornin'dale  cuttin'  poiper  dolls 
d'  foist  news  you  know.' 

"  At  this  d'  wicked  old  geezer  makes  a  strong  talk — 
makes  d'  speech  of  his  life.  But  Bridgy  won't  stand 
for  him,  nor  his  game. 

"  *  Come  off  your  perch  ! '  she  says  at  last.  '  Either 
you  corks  up  or  I  quits.  You  don't  make  no  hit  wit' 
me  at  all.' 

"  But  d'  old  mucker  don't  let  up  none,  an'  keeps  on 
givin'  Bridgy  a  song  an'  dance  about  his  love  for  her  ; 
so  at  last  she  makes  her  bluff  good  an'  walks  out  of  d' 
joint  an'  goes  home. 

"  McGuire  was  hot  in  d'  collar  at  Bridgy  t'runnin' 
down  her  job  ;  but  d'  old  woman,  she  says  Bridgy  does 
dead  right  ;  an'  for  a  finish  Mac  an'  d'  old  woman  goes 


BRIDGY  McGUIRE.  191 

on  a  drunk  an'  has  a  fight  over  it ;  after  which  cT  sub 
ject's  dropped,  see  !  an'  that's  d'  end  of  it. 

"  I  only  sees  Bridgy  onct  after  that,  before  she  screws 
her  cocoa.  That's  at  d'  Tugman's  Ball ;  where  she's  d' 
Queen  spieler  of  d'  bunch,  an'  shows  on  d'  floor  as  light 
an'  graceful  as  so  much  cigar  smoke.  It's  right  on  d' 
heels  of  this  that  Bridgy  fades  from  d'  Bend  for  fair,  an* 
no  one  has  d'  least  line  on  her  or  knows  where  she's  at. 

"  It  runs  on  for  t'ree  or  four  spaces,  an'  d'  McGuires 
keeps  gettin*  drunker  an'  harder  up.  More'n  onct  d' 
neighbors  has  to  bring  in  d'  grub,  or  dey  wouldn't  have 
done  a  t'ing  but  starve.  Dey's  jumpin'  sideways  for 
food  to  chew,  I'll  tell  youse  that  right  now,  as  much  as 
half  d'  time.  Durin'  all  this  no  one  hears  a  woid  about 
Bridgy. 

"  Of  course,  no  one's  makin'  much  of  a  roar.  There's 
a  good  deal  doin'  about  d'  Bend,  see!  An'  d'  comin' 
or  d'  goin'  of  a  skirt  more  or  less  don't  cut  much  ice. 

"  It's  in  d'  winter,  an'  d'  McGuires  has  been  carryin' 
on  bad.  No  woik,  no  money,  no  grub  !  On  d'  dead ! 
it's  a  forty-to-one  shot  dey  bot'  finishes  at  d' morgue, 
or  d'  Island  before  d'  spring  comes  'round.  For  d' 
winter  is  bad  in  d'  Bend,  an'  while  everybody  is  on, 
that  d'  McGuires  is  strikin'  it  hard,  d'  most  of  us  is 
havin'  all  we  can  do  runnin'  down  t'ree  feeds  a  day,  so 
d'  McGuires  ain't  what  •  d'  poipers  calls  '  much  in  d' 
public  eye,'  after  all.  One  evenin',  however,  Mac  comes 
sprintin'  to  me,  an'  he's  fair  sober  for  him. 

41 '  Nit  !  '  he  says,  when  I  asts  him,  '  nit  ;  none  of  d' 
ellegunt  for  me  ! ' 

"  Then  I  tumbles  there's  a  cochin  on.  McGuire's 
t'runnin'  off  on  a  drink  was  a  new  one  on  d'  Bend. 

" '  Come  wit'  me/  he  says,  '  to  Koster  &  Bial's.' 


192  SANDBURRS 

"  '  Come  wit'  youse  to  Koster's  ! '  I  retort.  '  That's 
a  dandy  idee ;  youse  ought  to  sew  buttons  on  it !  Come 
to  Koster  &  Bial's  !  Who's  got  d'  price  ?  ' 

"  '  Here's  d'  pasteboards,'  says  Mac. 

"  An'  I'm  a  liar  if  he  ain't  got  'em.  So  we  goes, 
see ! 

"  D'  fift'  toin  on  d' programme  is  a'  Mamselle  Fleury 
from  Paris.'  She's  down  on  d'  bills  as  a  singer,  dancer 
an'  high  kicker.  I'm  leanin'  back  in  me  seat  feelin'  sore 
on  meself  for  not  makin'  Mac  hock  d'  tickets  for  beer, 
when  all  at  onct  Mac  gives  me  a  jolt  in  d'  slats  wit'  his 
elbow,  an'  pointin'  one  of  his  main  hooks  at  this  French 
tart,  where  she's  singin'  on  d'  stoige — an'  say  !  she's  a 
boid  an'  a  Kokobola — an'  says  : 

"'  Be  youse  on?  ' 

"  I  focuses  me  peeps  on  this  Fleury,  all  pink  tights 
an*  silks  an'  feathers,  where  she's  doin'  her  toin.  I'm 
a  lobster  if  she  ain't  Bridgy  McGuire  ! 

" '  What  th'  'ell !  what  th'  bloomin'  'ell ! '  is  cJl  I  can 
say ;  an'  on  d'  square  !  Mac  has  to  drag  me  out  an'  lay 
an  oyster  on  me  before  I'm  meself  ag'in.  It  comes 
mighty  near  stoppin'  me  in  d'  foist  round. 

"  You  sees  d'  finish.  Bridgy's  took  to  d'  stoige. 
She's  been  over  in  London  an'  Paris  ;  an'  say  !  she's 
got  d'  game  down  fine  as  silk.  She'd  come  back  an' 
was  beatin'  d'  box  for  t'ree  hundred  plunks  a  week. 

"Sure!  Bridgy  had  been  up  to  find  her  folks.  Foist 
she  said  she  t'ought  she'd  pass  'em  up.  Dey  had  given 
her  d'  woist  of  it  when  she's  a  kid  ;  why  should  she 
bother !  But  she  tells  us  herself,  talkin'  it  over,  how 
when  she  struck  d'  old  town  ag'in,  an'  old  sights  begins 
to  toin  up  old  mem'ries,  it  starts  to  run  in  her  wig  about 
d'  Bend  an'  d'  old  days.  An'  what  stan's  out  clearest 


BRIDGY  McGUIRE  193 

is  d'  little  old  Cat'lic  choich,  an'  d'  guff  dey  gives  her 
d'  onct  or  twict  she  shows  up  there,  about  honourin'  her 
father  an'  mother.  I  s'pose  what  youse  would  call 
Bridgy's  conscience  gets  a  run  for  its  money.  Anyhow, 
somet'ing  inside  of  her  took  to  chewin'  d'  rag,  an' 
showin'  Bridgy's  she's  wrong,  an'  at  d'  last,  she  can't 
stand  for  it  no  longer,  an'  so  she  sends  a  tracer  out  for 
her  mother  an*  dad,  an'  lands  'em. 

"  D'  McGuires  live  in  Harlem  now.  Dey  drinks 
better  whiskey  then  dey  did  in  d'  Bend,  an'  less  of  it. 
Bridgy  is  a  wonder  an'  a  winner ;  in  it  wit'  bot'  feet  an* 
has  dough  to  back  every  needful  racket.  Yes,  d'  choich 
does  it,  give  it  d'  credit  ;  an'  youse  can  gamble  your 
last  chip  d'  McGuires  crosses  themselfs  every  time  dey 
sees  one.  An'  dey's  dead  flossy  so  to  do." 
13 


TOO  CHEAP 

(Bv  THE  OFFICE  BOY) 

CHAPTER  I. 

THE  scene  was  Washington. 

"  Get  the  galoot  to  urge  the  Bill,  gal;  and  I'll  make 
over  half  them  phosphate  beds  to  you.  The  Senate 
has  already  passed  it." 

"  I'll  do  my  best,  Uncle  Silver  Tip,"  said  Agnes 
Huntington.  "Slippery  Elm  Benton  loves  me,  and  he 
cannot  refuse  his  affianced  wife  his  vote." 

"  They'd  hang  him  in  Colorado  if  he  did,"  observed 
Uncle  Silver  Tip ;  "  but  see  to  it  at  once,  gal  ;  the 
fourth  of  March  draws  on  apace.  All  must  then  be 
over,  or  all  is  lost." 

CHAPTER  II 

AGNES  HUNTINGTON  pressed  her  expectant  nose 
against  the  pane.  Outside  the  snowstorm  was  profound. 
The  flakes  crowded  the  air  as  they  fell.  The  drifts  were 
four  feet  deep  on  Connecticut  avenue.  A  man  wrapped 
in  furs  pushed  his  way  toward  the  Chateau  d' Hunting- 
ton.  It  was  Arctic  cold,  but  love  beckoned  him.  He 
stamped  the  snow  from  his  feet  in  the  entry.  The 
next  moment  Agnes  Huntington  had  curled  about  his 
neck  in  a  festoon  of  affection. 

It  was  Representative  Slippery  Elm  Benton. 
194 


SANDBURRS 

Agnes  Huntington  was  a  beautiful  creature — tall, 
slender,  spirit uelle,  with  eyes  as  dark  and  deep  as  the 
heavens  at  night.  Agnes  Huntington  had  but  one 
fault :  she  would  sell  the  honour  of  the  man  she  loved. 

Agnes  Huntington  was  out  for  the  stuff  bigger  than 
a  wolf. 

CHAPTER  III 

"  SOMETIMES  I  doubt  the  longevity  of  our  bliss,"  he 
said.  "  Despair  rides  on  the  crupper  of  my  hopes  at 
times.  The  Witch  of  Waco  told  how  in  a  trance  she 
saw  my  future  spread  before  me  like  a  faro  layout. 
'  And/  said  the  Witch  of  Waco,  '  I  saw  the  pale  hand 
of  Fate  put  a  copper  on  the  queen.  You  may  be 
lynched,  but  you  will  never  wed.'  Such  was  her  bleak 
bode." 

And  Slippery  Elm  Benton  trembled  like  a  child. 

"Heed  her  not,  dearest,"  murmured  Agnes  Hunting- 
ton.  "  Surrender  yourself,  as  I  do,  to  the  solemn  cur 
rents  of  our  love.  And,  darling,  promise  me  again, 
you  will  do  what  is  needful  for  the  Phosphate  Bill.  It 
would  brighten  the  last  days  of  dear  old  Uncle  Silver 
Tip." 

"  Where  is  your  aged  relative  ?  "  asked  Slippery  Elm 
Benton,  moodily. 

"  We'd  better  not  call  him,  dearest,"  she  said. 
u  Uncle  is  lushing  to-night,  and  he  is  unpleasant  when 
he  has  been  tanking  up.  What  you  do  for  the  Phos 
phate  Bill,  you  do  for  me." 

CHAPTER  IV 
IT  was   "  suspension  day,"   and  the  Phosphate   Bill 


196  SANDBURRS 

went  through    the   House  like  the  grace  of   Heaven 
through  a  camp-meeting. 


CHAPTER  V 

"  HALF  of  that  phosphate  bed  is  yours,  gal,"  said 
Uncle  Silver  Tip,  when  Agnes  Huntington  told  him 
the  Bill  was  already  at  the  White  House  for  the  Pres 
ident's  signature.  "  It's  wuth  a  million ;  an'  you've 
'arned  it,  gal  !  It  was  to  turn  sech  tricks  as  this  your 
old  uncle  sent  you  from  the  wild  and  woolly  West  to  an 
Eastern  seminary,  and  had  them  knock  your  horns  off. 
It  cost  a  bunch  of  cattle,  but  it's  paid." 


CHAPTER  VI 

"  THERE'S  something  I  must  tell  you,  love,"  said 
Agnes  Huntington  ;  "  you  would  know  all  in  time,  and 
it  is  better  that  you  learn  it  now  from  the  lips  of  your 
Agnes." 

"  What  is  it,  beautiful  one  ?  "  said  Slippery  Elm  Ben- 
ton,  languidly. 

The  Congressional  day,  with  its  labours,  had  wearied 
our  hero,  and,  although  with  the  woman  he  loved,  he 
still  felt  fatigued. 

"  Read  this,"  said  Agnes,  as  she  pushed  a  paper  into 
her  lover's  hand,  and  shrank  back  as  if  frightened. 

The  paper  made  over  one-half  of  the  phosphate  bed 
to  Agnes  Huntington. 

"  And  it  was  for  this  you  sold  my  vote  in  the  House  !  " 
and  Slippery  Elm  Benton  laughed  mockingly. 

"Oh,  say  not  so,   love!"  said  Agnes  Huntington, 


TOO  CHEAP  197 

piteously.  "  Rather  would  I  hear  you  curse  than  laugh 
like  that ! " 

"  And  so  the  vote  and  influence  of  Slippery  Elm 
Benton  are  basely  bargained  by  the  woman  he  loved 
for  a  one-half  interest  in  a  phosphate  bed  ! " 

Slippery  Elm  Benton  strode  up  and  down  the  apart 
ment,  tossing  his  arms  like  a  Dutch  windmill. 

Agnes  Huntington  cowered  before  the  wrath  of  her 
lover. 

"  What  would  you  have  ?"  she  cried. 

"  What  would  I  have !  "  repeated  Slippery  Elm  Ben- 
ton,  with  a  sneer,  which  all  but  withered  the  weeping 
girl ;  "  what  would  I  have  !  I  would  have  all — all !  My 
vote  and  influence  were  worth  the  entire  phosphate  bed, 
and  you  basely  accepted  a  paltry  moiety  !  Go  from  my 
side,  false  woman  ;  you  who  would  put  so  low  an  esti 
mate  upon  me !  The  Witch  of  Waco  was  right.  I 
leave  you.  I  leave  you  as  one  unfit  to  be  the  wife  of 
a  Congressman ! " 

And  Slippery  Elm  Benton,  while  Agnes  Huntington 
swooned  on  the  rug,  rushed  into  the  night  and  the 
snow. 


HENRY  SPENY'S  BENEVOLENCE 

SUMMER  was  here  and  the  day  was  warm.  Henry 
Speny  had  been  walking,  and  now  stood  at -the  corner 
of  Tenth  Avenue  and  Twenty-eighth  street,  mopping 
his  brow.  Henry  Speny  was  a  Conservative  ;  and, 
although  Mrs.  Speny  had  that  morning  gone  almost 
to  the  frontiers  of  a  fist  fight  to  make  him  change  his 
underwear  for  the  lighter  and  more  gauzy  apparel 
proper  to  jocund  August,  Henry  Speny  refused.  He 
was  now  paying  the  piper,  and  thinking  how  much 
more  Mrs.  Speny  knew  than  he  did,  when  the  Tramp' 
came  up. 

"  Podner  !  "  said  the  Tramp  in  a  low,  guttural  whine, 
intended  to  escape  the  ear  of  the  police  and  touch 
Henry  Speny's  heart  at  one  and  the  same  time ; 
"  podner !  couldn't  you  assist  a  pore  man  a  little  ?  " 

"Assist  a  poor  man  to  what  ?  "  asked  Henry  Speny, 
returning  his  handkerchief  to  his  pocket  and  looking 
scornfully  at  the  Tramp. 

He  was  a  fat,  healthy  Tramp,  in  good  condition. 
Henry  Speny  hardened  his  heart. 

"  Dime  !  "  replied  the  Tramp ;  "  dime  to  get  some- 
thin'  to  eat." 

"  No,"  said  Henry  Speny  shortly  ;  "  I'm  a  half  dozen 
meals  behind  the  game  myself." 

This  last  was  only   Henry  Speny's  humour.     Mrs. 
Speny  fed  him  twice  a  day.     But  Henry  Speny  knew 
that  the  Tramp  wanted  the  dime  for  whiskey. 
198 


HENRY  SPENY'S  BENEVOLENCE      199 

"  Well !  if  you  don't  think  I  want  it  to  chew  on," 
said  the  Tramp,  "  jest'  take  me  to  a  bakery  and  buy 
me  a  loaf  of  bread.  I'll  get  away  with  it  right  before 
you." 

"  Say  !  "  remarked  Henry  Speny,  in  a  spirit  of  sar 
castic  irritation,  "  what's  the  use  of  your  talking  to 
me?  There's  the  Charity  Woodyard  in  this  town, 
where,  if  you  were  really  hungry,  you  would  go  and 
saw  wood  for  something  to  eat.  You  can  get  two 
meals  and  a  bed  for  sawing  one-sixteenth  of  a  cord  of 
wood." 

"  You  can't  saw  wood  with  no  such  fin  as  this, 
podner !  "  said  the  Tramp  ;  and  pulling  up  his  coat 
sleeve  he  displayed  to  Henry  Speny  an  arm  as  with 
ered  as  a  dead  tree.  "  The  other's  all  right,"  he  con 
tinued,  restoring  his  coat  sleeve  ;  "  but  wot's  one  arm 
in  a  catch-as-catch-can  racket  with  a  bucksaw  ?  " 

Henry  Speny  was  conscience-stricken,  but  he  would 
defeat  the  Tramp  in  his  efforts  to  buy  whiskey. 

"  I'll  go  down  to  the  woodyard  and  saw  your  wood 
myself,"  said  Henry  Speny. 

He  told  Mrs.  Speny  afterward  that  he  could  not 
account  for  the  making  of  this  offer,  unless  it  was  his 
anxiety  to  keep  the  Tramp  sober.  All  the  Tramp 
wanted  was  ten  cents,  and  for  Henry  Speny  to  propose 
to  saw  one-sixteenth  of  a  cord  of  hard  wood  on  a  hot 
day,  when  a  dime  would  have  made  all  things  even, 
was  a  conundrum  too  deep  for  Henry  Speny,  as  he 
looked  back  over  the  transaction.  But  he  did  make 
the  proposal ;  and  the  Tramp  accepted  with  a  grin  of 
gratitude. 

There  were  twenty  sticks  in  that  one-sixteenth  of  a 
cord — hard,  knotty  sticks,  too.  And  each  one  had  to 


200  SANDBURRS 

be  sawed  three  times  ;  sixty  cuts  in  all.  It  was  a  poor 
bucksaw.  Before  he  had  finished  the  third  stick, 
Henry  Speny  declared  that  it  was  the  most  beastly 
bucksaw  he  ever  handled  in  his  life.  The  buck  itself 
was  a  wretched  buck,  and  wouldn't  stand  still  while 
Henry  Speny  sawed.  It  had  a  habit  of  tipping  over ; 
and  when  Henry  Speny  put  his  knee  on  the  stick  to 
steady  the  refractory  buck,  the  knots  tore  his  trousers 
and  made  his  legs  black  and  blue.  Then  the  perspira 
tion  got  in  his  eyes  and  made  them  smart.  When  he 
wiped  it  away  he  saw  two  of  his  friends  looking  at  him 
in  a  shocked,  sober  way  from  across  the  street.  They 
passed  on,  and  told  everybody  that  Henry  Speny 
was  down  at  the  Charity  Woodyard  sawing  wood  for 
his  food.  They  said,  too,  that  they  had  reason  to 
believe  he  did  this  every  day  ;  that  business  had  gone 
to  pieces  with  him,  and  an  assignment  couldn't  be 
staved  off  much  longer. 

Henry  Speny  would  have  thrown  up  the  job  with 
the  second  stick,  but  the  Tramp  was  already  half 
through  his  meal ;  Henry  Speny  could  see  him  bolting 
his  food  like  a  glutton  through  the  window,  from  where 
he  stood. 

It  took  Henry  Speny  two  hours  to  saw  those  twenty 
sticks  sixty  times.  His  hands  were  a  fretwork  of 
blisters;  his  back  and  shoulders  ached  like  a  galley- 
slave's.  Henry  Speny  hired  a  carriage  to  take  him 
home;  he  couldn't  stand  the  slam  and  jolt  of  a  street 
car.  He  was  laid  up  three  days  with  the  blisters  on 
his  hands,  while  Mrs.  Speny  rubbed  his  back  and 
shoulders  with  Pond's  Extract. 

On  the  fourth  day,  as  Henry  Speny  was  limping 
painfully  toward  his  office,  he  heard  a  voice  he  knew. 


HENRY  SPENY'S  BENEVOLENCE       201 

"  Podner !  can't  you  assist  a  pore  m —  Oh  !  beg 
pardon  ;  you  looked  so  different  I  didn't  know  you!" 

It  was  the  fat  Tramp  with  the  withered  arm. 
Without  a  word  Henry  Speny  gave  him  ten  cents  and 
hobbled  on. 


JANE  DOUGHERTY 
(ANNALS  OF  THE  BEND) 

"WHAT'S  d'  flossiest  good  t'ing  I'm  ever  guilty 
of?"  said  Chucky.  There  was  a  pause.  Chucky  let 
his  eye — somewhat  softened  for  him — rove  a  bit  ab 
stractedly  about  the  sordid  bar.  At  last  it  came  back 
to  repose  on  the  beer  mug  before  him,  as  the  most 
satisfying  sight  at  easy  hand. 

"  Now,"  retorted  Chucky,  as  he  wet  his  lip,  "  that 
question  is  a  corker.  '  What's  d'  star  good  deed  you 
does  ? '  is  d'  way  you  slings  it. 

"Will  I  name  it?  In  a  secont — in  a  hully  secont ! 
It's  d'  story  of  a  little  goil  I  steals,  an'  sticks  in  for  ever 
since.  This  kid's  two  years  comin'  t'ree,  when  I  pinched 
it,  so  to  speak ;  an'  youse  can  bet  your  boots  !  she  was 
reg'larly  up  ag'inst  it.  A  fly  old  sport  like  Chucky 
would  never  have  mingled  wit'  her  destinies  otherwise  ; 
not  on  your  life  !  Between  youse,  an'  me,  an'  d'  bar- 
keep  over  there,  I  ain't  got  no  more  natural  use  for 
kids  than  I  have  for  a  wet  dog.  But  never  mind  ! 
we'll  pass  up  that  kink  in  me  make-up  an'  get  down  to 
this  abduction  I  prides  meself  on. 

"  It's  nine  spaces  ago,  an'  d'  kid  in  dispoote  is  now 
goin'  on  twelve.  I've  been,  as  I  states,  stickin'  in  for 
her  ever  since,  an'  intends  to  play  me  string  to  a  finish. 
But  to  go  on  wit'  me  romance. 

"  As  I  relates,  d'  play  I  boasts  of  is  nine  spaces  in  d' 

202 


SANDBURRS  203 

rear,  see  !  In  that  day  I  has  a  dandy  graft.  I've  got 
me  hooks  on  as  big  a  bundle  as  a  hundred  plunks, 
many  an'  many  is  d'  week.  I'd  be  woikin'  it  now  only 
I  lushes  too  free. 

"  Here's  how  in  that  day  I  sep'rated  suckers  from 
their  stuff.  It  was  simply  fakin',  of  d'  smoot'  an' 
woidy  sort,  see  !  I'd  make  up  like  a  Zulu,  wit'  burnt 
cork,  an'  feathers,  an'  queer  duds;  an'  then  I'd  climb 
into  an  open  carnage,  drive  to  a  good  corner,  do  a  bit 
of  chin  music,  pull  a  crowd  an'  sell  'em  brass  jewellery. 

"  Me  patter  would  run  something  like  this :  D* 
waggon  would  stop  an'  I'd  stand  up.  Raisin'  me  lamps 
to  d'  heavens  above,  I'd  cut  loose  d'  remark  at  d'  top 
of  me  valves : 

"  '  It  looks  like  rain  !  It  don't  look  like  a  t'ing  but 
rain ! ' 

"  Wit'  me  foist  yell  d'  pop'lace  would  flock  'round, 
an'  in  two  minutes  there  would  be  a  hundred  people 
there.  In  ten,  there'd  be  a  t'ousand,  if  d'  cops  didn't 
get  in  their  woik.  I'll  give  youse  a  tip  d'  great  Ameri 
can  public  is  d'  star  gezebos  to  come  to  a  dead  halt,  an' 
look  an'  listen  to  t'ings.  More'n  onct  I've  seen  some 
stiff  who's  sprintin'  for  a  doctor,  make  a  runnin'  switch 
at  d'  sound  of  me  voice  an'  side-track  himself  for  t'irty 
minutes  to  hear  me.  Dey's  a  dead  curious  lot,  d'  pub 
lic  is;  buy  a  French  pool  on  that  ! 

"  Wen  d'  crowd  is  jammed  all  about  me  carriage 
w'eels,  I'd  cut  loose  some  more.  I'd  quit  d'  rain  ques 
tion  cold,  an'  holdin'  up  an  armful  of  jimcrow  jewellery, 
I'd  t'row  meself  like  this  : 

"  '  Loidies  an'  gents,'  I'd  say,  '  I'm  d'  only  orig'nal 
Coal  Oil  Johnny.  An'  I'm  a  soon  mug  at  that,  see! 
I  don't  get  d'  woist  of  it  ;  not  on  your  neckties.  I 


204  JANE  DOUGHERTY 

gives  away  two  hundred  an'  I  takes  in  four  hundred 
toadskins  (dollars)  an'  I  don't  let  no  mob  of  hayseeds 
do  me,  so  youse  farmers  needn't  try. 

" '  Look  at  me!  Cast  your  lamps  over  me!  I'm 
one  of  Cetewayo's  Zulu  body-guard,  an'  I'm  here  from 
Africa  on  a  furlough  to  saw  off  on  suckers  a  lot  of  bum 
jewellery,  an'  down  youse  for  your  dough,  see !  I'm 
goin'  to  offer  for  sale  four  t'ings  :  I'm  goin'  to  sell  youse 
foist  ten  rings,  then  ten  brooches,  then  ten  chains,  and 
then  ten  watches.  An'  when  I  gets  down  to  d'  watches, 
watch  me  clost ;  because,  when  I  gets  nex'  to  d'  tickers 
I've  reached  d'  point  where  I'm  goin'  to  t'run  youse 
down.  I'm  here  to  skin  youse  out  of  your  money,  an' 
leave  youse  lookin'  like  d'  last  run  of  shad. 

"  *  But  there's  this  pecooiiarity  about  me  sellin'  d' 
rings.  Each  ring  is  a  dollar  apiece,  an'  when  I've 
shoved  ten  of  'em  onto  youse,  every  galoot  who's  paid 
me  a  dollar  for  one,  gets  his  dollar  back  an'  a  dollar 
wit'  it  for  luck. 

"  '  Now  here's  d'  rings,  good  folks  an'  all ! ' — here 
I'd  flash  d'  rings ;  gilt,  an'  wort'  t'ree  dollars  a  ton  ! — 
*  here's  d'  little  crinklets  !  Who's  goin'  to  take  one  at 
a  dollar,  an'  at  d'  finish,  when  d'  ten  is  sold,  get  two 
dollars  back?  Who'll  be  d'  foist?  Now  don't  rush 
me !  don't  crush  me !  but  come  one  at  a  time.  D' 
rings  ain't  wort'  a  dollar  a  ton :  I  only  makes  d'  play 
for  fun,  an'  because  d'  doctors  who  looks  after  me 
healt'  says  I'll  croak  if  I  don't  travel.  Who'll  be  d' 
early  boid  to  nip  a  ring  ? 

"  '  There  you  be ! '  I  goes  on,  as  some  rustic  gets  to 
d'  front  an'  hands  up  d'  bill.  '  Sold  ag'in  an'  got  d' 
tin,  another  farmer  just  sucked  in  !  ' 

"  So  I  goes,  on,"  continued  Chucky,  after  reviving 


JANE  DOUGHERTY  205 

his  voice — which  his  exertions  had  made  a  trifle  raucous 
—with  a  swig  at  the  tankard  ;  "  so  I'd  go  on  until  d' 
ten  rings  would  be  sold.  Then  I'd  go  over  d'  outfit 
ag'in,  take  back  d'  rings,  an'  give  'em  each  a  two-dollar 
willyum. 

"  '  Now  push  back  into  d'  mob,  you  lucky  guys/  I'd 
say,  '  an'  give  your  maddened  competitors  to  d'  rear  of 
youse  a  chanct  to  woik  d'  racket.  I'm  goin'  to  sell  ten 
brooches  now  for  two  dollars  each,  an'  give  back  four 
dollars  wit'  every  brooch.  Then  I'm  goin'  to  dazzle 
youse  wit'  ten  chains,  at  five  cases  per  chain.  An'  then 
I'll  get  down  to  d'  watches,  at  which  crisis,  me  guile 
less  come-ons,  youse  must  be  sure  to  watch  me,  for  it's 
then  I'll  make  a  monkey  of  youse.' 

"  An'  so  I  chins  on,  offerin'  d'  brooches  at  two  dol 
lars  a  t'row,  an'  at  d'  wind-up,  when  d'  ten  is  gone,  I 
gives  back  to  each  mucker  who's  got  in,  d'  sum  of  four 
plunks,  see! 

"  Be  that  time  it's  a  knock-down  an'  drag-out  around 
me  cabrioley,  to  see  who's  goin'  to  transact  business 
wit'  me,  an',  wit'out  as  much  cacklin'  as  a  hen  makes 
over  an  egg,  I  goes  to  d'  chains  an'  floats  ten  of  'em  at 
five  a  chain.  As  I  sells  d'  last,  I  toins  sharp  on  some 
duck  who's  clost  be  me  w'eel  an'  says  : 

" '  What's  that  ?  I'm  a  crook,  am  I  !  an'  this  ain't 
on  d'  level !  Loidies  an'  gents,  just  for  d'  disparagin* 
remark  of  this  hobo,  who  is  no  doubt  funny  in  his  top 
knot  from  drink,  I'll  go  on  an'  sell  ten  more  chains. 
After  which  I'll  come  down  to  d'  watches,  which  is  d* 
great  commercial  point  where  youse  had  better  watch 
me,  for  it's  there  I'm  goin'  to  lose  you  in  a  lope !  An* 
that's  for  fair,  see  ! ' 

"  Ten  more  chains,  at  five  a  trip,  goes  off  like  circua 


206  SANDBURRS 

lem'nade,  an'  I  stows  cT  long  an'  beauteous  green  away 
in  me  keck.  As  d'  last  one  of  d'  secont  ten  fades  into 
d'  hooks  of  d'  last  sucker,  I  stows  d'  five  he's  coughed 
up  for  it  in  me  raiment,  an'  says  : 

" '  An*  no\v,  loidies  an*  gents,  we  gets  down  to  d' 
watches  ! ' 

"  Wit'  which  bluff  I  lugs  me  ticker  out  an'  takes  a 
squint  at  it. 

"  '  What  th'  'ell !  '  I  shouts.  '  Here  it's  half-past 
t'ree,  an'  I  was  to  be  married  at  t'ree-fifteen !  Hully 
gee!  Excuse  me,  people,  but  I  must  fly  to  d'  side  of 
me  beloved,  or  I'll  get  d'  dead  face;  also  d'  frozen  mit. 
I'll  see  youse  dubs  next  year,  if  woikin'  overtime  wit' 
youse  to-day  ain't  ruined  me  career.' 

"  As  I'm  singin'  out  d'  last,  I'm  givin'  me  driver  d' 
office  to  beat  his  dogs  an'  chase,  see  !  An',  bein'  as 
he's  on,  an'  is  paid  extra  as  his  part  of  d'  graft,  he 
soaks  d'  horses  wit'  d'  whip  an'  in  twenty  seconts  d' 
crowd  is  left  behint,  an'  is  busy  givin'  each  other  d' 
laugh.  No,  there  never  was  no  row  ;  no  mug  was  ever 
mobbed  for  guyin'.  Nit !  I  always  comes  away  all 
right,  an'  youse  can  figure  it,  I'm  sixty  good  bones  in 
on  d'  racket. 

"  Naturally,  youse  would  like  to  hear  where  d'  kid 
breaks  into  d'  play  an'  how  I  wins  it.  I'd  ought  to 
have  told  youse  sooner,  but,  011  d'  level !  when  me  old 
patter  begins  to  flow  off  me  tongue,  I  can't  shut  down 
until  I've  spieled  it  all. 

"  But  about  d'  kid.  One  afternoon  I'm  goin'  on — 
it's  in  Joisey  City — wit'  me  Zulu  war-paint  an'  me  open 
carriage,  givin'  d'  usual  mob  d'  usual  jolly.  T'ings  is 
runnin'  off  d'  reel  like  a  fish  new  hooked,  an*  I'm  down 
to  me  fift*  chain.  Just  then  I  hears  a  woman  say  : 


JANE  DOUGHERTY  207 

"  '  Fly's  d'  woid,  Sallie  !  Here's  your  old  man,  an' 
he's  got  his  load  !  He  won't  do  a  t'ing  to  youse  !  Screw 
out,  Sal !  screw  out !  " 

"  But  Sallie,  who's  a  tattered  lookin'  soubrette,  wit* 
a  kid  in  her  arms,  an'  who's  been  standin'  clost  be  one 
of  me  hind  w'eels,  don't  get  no  chanct  to  skin  out, 
see  !  There's  a  drunken  hobo — as  big  an'  as  strong  as 
a  horse — who's  right  up  to  her  when  d'  foist  skirt  puts 
her  on.  As  she  toins,  he  cops  her  one  in  d'  neck  wit'- 
out  a  woid.  Down  she  goes  like  ninepins  !  As  she 
lands,  d'  back  of  her  cocoa  don't  do  a  t'ing  but  t'ump 
a  stone  horse-block  wit'  a  whack  !  As  d'  blood  flies, 
I'm  lookin'  down  at  her.  I  sees  her  map  fade  to  a  grey 
w'ite  under  d'  dirt ;  she  bats  her  lamps  onct  or  twict ; 
an'  d'  nex'  moment  I'm  on  wit'out  tellin'  that  her 
light  is  out  for  good. 

"  As  Sallie  does  d'  fall,  d'  kid  which  she's  holdin* 
rolls  in  d'  gutter  under  d'  carriage. 

*' '  T'run  d'  kid  in  here  ! '  I  says  to  d*  mark  who  picks 
it  up. 

"  Me  only  idee  at  d'  t'me  is  to  keep  d'  youngone 
from  gettin'  d'  boots  from  d  mob  that's  surgin'  round, 
an*  tryin*  to  mix  it  up  wit'  d'  drunken  bum  who's 
soaked  Sal.  D'  guy  who  gets  d'  kid  fires  it  up  to  me 
like  it's  a  football.  I'm  handy  wit'  me  hooks,  so  I 
cops  it  off  in  midair,  an'  stows  it  away  on  d'  seat. 

"  Be  that  time  d'  p'lice  has  collared  d'  fightin'  bum 
all  right,  an'  some  folks  is  draggin'  Sal,  who's  limp  an' 
dead  enough,  into  a  drug  shop. 

"  It's  all  up  wit'  me  graft  for  that  day,  so  after 
lookin'  at  d'  youngone  a  secont,  I  goes  curvin'  off  to 
d'  hotel  where  I  hangs  out.  While  I'm  takin'  me  Zulu 
make-up  off,  d'  chambermaid  stands  good  for  d'  kid. 


208  SANDBURRS 

When  I  sees  it  ag'in,  it's  all  washed  up  an'  got  some 
decent  duds  on.     Say  !  on  d'  dead  !  it  was  a  wonder  ! 

"Well,  to  cut  it  short,"  said  Chucky,  giving  the 
order  for  another  mug  of  ale,  "  I  loins  that  night  that 
d'  mother  is  dead,  an'  d'  drunken  hobo's  in  d'  hold 
over.  As  it's  a  cinch  he'll  do  time  for  life,  even  if  he 
misses  bein'  stretched,  I  looks  d'  game  all  over,  an'  for 
a  wind-up  I  freezes  to  d'  kid.  Naw  ;  I  couldn't  tell 
why,  at  that,  see !  only  d'  youngone  acts  like  it's  stuck 
on  me. 

"  Nixie  ;  I  never  keeps  it  wit'  me.  I've  got  it  up  to 
d'  Sisters'  school.  Say  !  them  nuns  is  gone  on  it.  I 
makes  a  front  to  'em  as  d'  kid's  uncle  ;  an'  while  I've 
been  shy  meself  on  grub  more'n  onct  since  I  asted  d' 
Sisters  to  keep  it,  I  makes  good  d'  money  for  d'  kid 
right  along,  an'  I  always  will.  What  name  does  I  give 
it  ?  Jane— Jane  Dougherty  ;  it's  me  mudder's  name. 
Nit;  I  don't  know  what  I'll  do  wit'  Jane  for  a  finish. 
I  was  talkin'  to  me  Rag  only  d'  other  day  about  it,  an' 
she  told  me,  in  a  week  or  so,  she'd  go  an'  take  a  fall 
out  of  a  fortune-teller,  who,  me  Rag  says,  is  d'  swiftest 
of  d'  whole  fortune-tellin'  push.  Mebby  we'll  get  a 
steer  from  her." 


MISTRESS  KILLIFER 

(WOLFVILLE) 

THIS  is  of  a  day  prior  to  Dave  Tutt's  taking  a  wife, 
and  a  year  before  the  nuptials  of  Benson  Annie,  as 
planned  and  executed  by  Old  Man  Enright,  with  one, 
French. 

Wolfville  is  dissatisfied  ;  what  one  might  call  peevish. 
A  man  has  been  picked  up  shot  to  death,  no  one  can 
tell  by  whom  ;  no  one  has  hung  for  it.  Any  one 
familiar  with  the  Western  spirit  and  the  Western  way 
would  note  the  discontent  by  merely  walking  through 
the  single,  sun-burned  street.  When  two  citizens  of  the 
place  make  casual  meeting  in  store  or  causeway,  they 
confine  their  salutations  to  gruff  "  how'd  !  "  and  pass 
on.  Men  are  even  seen  to  drink  alone  in  a  sullen, 
morbid  way. 

Clearly  something  is  wrong  with  Wolfville.  The 
popular  discontent  is  so  sufficiently  pronounced  as  to 
merit  the  notice  of  leading  citizens.  Therefore  it  is 
no  marvel  that  when  Old  Man  Enright,  who,  by  right 
of  years — and  with  a  brain  as  clear  and  as  bright  as  a 
day  in  June — is  the  head  man  of  the  hamlet,  meets  Doc 
Peets  at  the  bar  of  the  Red  Light,  the  discussion 
falls  on  affairs  of  public  concern. 

"  Whatever  do  you  reckon  is  the  matter  with  this 
camp,  Enright  ?  "  asks  Doc   Peets,  as  they  tip  their 
liquor  into  their  throats  without  missing  a  drop. 
14  209 


210  SANDBURRS 

Doc  Peets  is  the  medical  practitioner  of  Wolfvillc, 
but  his  grammar,  like  that  of  many  another  man,  has 
lost  ground  before  his  environment. 

"  Can't  tell ! "  replied  Enright,  with  a  mien  dubious 
yet  thoughtful.  "  Looks  like  the  whole  outfit  is  some 
how  on  a  dead  kyard.  Mebby  it's  that  Denver  party 
gettin'  downed  last  week  an'  no  one  lynched.  Some 
folks  says  the  Stranglers  oughter  have  swung  that 
Greaser." 

"  Well !  "  retorts  Doc  Peets,  "  you  as  chief  of  the 
Stranglers,  an'  I  as  a  member  in  full  standin',  knows 
thar's  no  more  evidence  ag'in  that  Mexican  than  ag'in 
my  pinto  hoss." 

"  Of  course,  I  knows  that  too  !  "  replies  Enright, 
"  but  still  I  sorter  thinks  general  sentiment  lotted  on 
a  hangin'.  You  know,  Doc,  it  ain't  so  important  from 
a  public  stand  that  you  stretches  the  right  gent,  as 
that  you  stretches  somebody  when  it's  looked  for. 
Nacherally  it  would  have  been  mighty  mortifyin'  to 
the  Mexican  who's  swung  off  at  the  loop-end  of  the 
lariat  for  a  killin'  he  ain't  in  on  ;  but  still  I  holds  the 
belief  it  would  have  calmed  the  sperit  of  the  camp. 
However,  I  may  be  'way  off  to  one  side  on  that ;  it's 
jest  my  view.  Set  up  the  nosepaint  ag'in,  barkeep  !  " 

While  Doc  Peets  is  slowly  freighting  his  glass  with 
a  fair  allowance,  he  is  deep  in  meditation. 

"  I've  an  idee,  Enright,"  says  Doc  Peets  at  last. 
"  The  thing  for  us  to  do  is  to  give  the  public  some  new 
direction  of  thought  that'll  hold  'em  quiet.  The  games 
is  all  dead  at  this  hour,  an'  the  boys  ain't  doin'  nothin'; 
s'pose  we  makes  a  round-up  to  consider  my  scheme. 
The  mere  exercise  will  soothe  'em." 

"Shall  we  have  Jack   Moore  post  a  notice  ?"  asks 


MISTRESS  KILLIFER  211 

Enright.  "  He's  Kettle  Tender  to  the  Stranglers,  an*  I 
reckons  what  he  does  that  a-way  makes  it  legal." 

"  No/'  says  Peets,  "  let's  rustle  'em  in  an'  hold  the 
meetin'  right  now  an'  yere  in  the  Red  Light.  Some 
of  the  boys  is  feclin'  that  petulant  they're  likely  to  get 
to  chewin'  each  other's  manes  any  minute.  I'm  tellin' 
you,  Enright,  onless  somethin'  is  done  mighty  pace 
tiempo  to  cheer  'em,  an'  convince  'em  that  Wolfville  is 
lookin'  up  an'  gettin'  ahead  on  the  correct  trail,  this 
outfit's  liable  to  have  a  killin'  any  time  at  all.  The 
recent  decease  of  that  Denver  person  won't  be  a 
marker  !  " 

"  All  right !  "  says  Enright,  "  if  thar  ain't  no  time  for 
Moore  an'  a  notice,  a  good,  handy,  quick  way  to  focus 
public  interest  would  be  to  step  to  the  back  door,  an* 
shake  the  loads  outen  my  six-shooter.  That'll  excite 
cur'osity,  an'  over  they'll  come  all  spraddled  out." 

Thus  it  comes  to  pass  that  the  afternoon  peace  of 
Wolfville  is  suddenly  disparaged  and  broken  down  by 
six  pistol  shots.  They  follow  each  other  like  the  rapid 
striking  of  a  Yankee  clock. 

''Any  one  creased?"  asks  Jack  Moore,  by  general 
consent  i  fashion  of  marshal  and  executive  officer  for 
the  place,  and  who,  followed  by  the  population  of 
Wolfville,  rushes  up  the  moment  following  the  shoot 
ing. 

"  None  whatever  !  "  replies  Doc  Peets,  cheerfully. 
"The  shootin'  you-alls  hears  is  purely  bloodless;  an' 
Enright  an'  me  indulges  tharin  onder  what  they  calls 
the  '  public  welfare  clause  of  the  constitootion.'  The 
intent  which  urges  us  to  shake  up  the  sereenity  of  the 
hour  is  to  convene  the  camp,  which  said  rite  bein'  now 
accomplished,  the  barkeep  asks  your  beverages,  an'  the 
business  proceeds  in  reg'lar  order." 


212  SANDBURRS 

Enright,  who  has  finished  replenishing  the  pistol  from 
which  he  evicted  the  loads,  draws  a  chair  to  a  monte 
table  and  drums  gently  with  his  fingers. 

"  The  meetin'  will  please  bed  itse'f  down ! "  says 
Enright,  with  a  sage  dignity  which  has  generous  reflec 
tion  in  the  faces  around  him.  "  Doc  Peets,  gents,  who 
is  a  sport  whom  we  all  knows  an*  respects,  will  now 
state  the  object  of  this  round-up.  The  barkeep  mean 
while  will  please  continue  his  rounds,  the  same  not 
bein'  deemed  disturbin' ;  none  whatever." 

"  Gents,  an'  fellow  townsmen  !  "  says  Doc  Peets, 
rising  at  the  call  of  Enright  and  stepping  forward,  "  I 
avoids  all  harassin'  mention  of  a  yeretofore  sort.  Comin' 
down  to  the  turn  at  once,  I  ventures  the  remark  that 
thar's  somethin'  wrong  with  Wolfville.  I  would  see  no 
virtue  in  pursooin'  this  subject,  which  might  well  ex 
cite  the  resentment  of  all  true  citizens  of  the  town, 
was  it  not  that  I  feels  acrowdin'  necessity  fora  change 
of  a  radical  sort.  Somethin'  must  be  proposed,  an* 
somethin'  must  be  did.  I  am  well  aware  thar's  gents 
yere  to-day  as  holds  a  conviction  that  a  bet  is  over 
looked  in  not  stringin'  the  Mexican  last  week  on  ac 
count  of  the  party  from  Denver.  That  may  or  may 
not  be  true  ;  but  in  any  event,  that  hand's  been  played, 
an'  that  pot's  been  lost  an'  won.  Whether  on  that 
occasion  we  diskyards  an'  draws  for  the  best  interests 
of  the  public,  may  well  pass  by  onasked.  At  any  rate 
we  don't  fill,  an'  the  Greaser  wins  out  with  his  neck. 
Lettin'  the  past,  tharfore,  drift  for  a  moment,  I  would 
like  to  hear  from  any  gent  present  somethin'  in  the 
line  of  a  proposal  for  future  action  ;  one  calc'lated  to 
do  Wolfville  proud.  As  affairs  stand  our  pride  isgoin' 
our  brotherly  love  is  goin',  our  public  sperit  is  goin', 


MISTRESS  KILLIFER  213 

an'  the  way  we're  p'intin'  out,  onless  we  comes  squar' 
about  on  the  trail,  we  won't  be  no  improvement  on  an 
outfit  of  Digger  Injuns  in  a  month.  Gents,  I  pauses  at 
this  p'int  for  su'gestions." 

As  Doc  Peets  sits  down  a  whispered  buzz  runs 
through  the  room.  It  is  plain  that  what  he  has  said 
finds  sympathy  in  his  audience. 

"  You've  heard  Peets,"  observes  Enright,  beating 
softly.  "  Any  party  with  views  should  not  withhold  'em. 
I  takes  it  we-all  is  anxious  for  the  good  of  Wolfville. 
We  should  proceed  with  wisdom.  Red  Dog,  our  tin 
horn  rival,  is  a-watchin'  of  this  camp,  ready  to  detect 
an'  take  advantages  of  any  weakenin'  of  sperit  on  the 
Wolfville  part.  So  far  Red  Dog  has  been  out-lucked, 
out-played,  an'  out-held.  Wolfville  has  downed  her 
on  the  deal,  an'  on  the  draw.  But,  to  continue  in 
the  future  as  in  the  past,  requires  to-day  that  we 
acts  promptly,  an'  in  yoonison,  an'  give  the  sitooation, 
mentally  speakin',  the  best  turn  in  the  box." 

"  What  for  a  play  would  it  be  ?  "  asks  Dan  Boggs, 
doubtfully,  as  he  rises  and  bows  stiffly  to  Enright,  who 
bows  stiffly  in  return ;  "  whatever  for  a  play  would  it 
be  to  rope  up  one  of  these  yere  lecture  sharps,  which 
the  same  I  goes  ag'inst  the  other  night  in  Tucson  ? 
He  could  stampede  over  an'  put  us  up  a  talk  in  the 
warehouse  of  the  New  York  Store  ;  an'  I'm  right  yere 
to  say  a  lecture  would  look  mighty  meetropolitan,  that 
a-way,  an'  lay  over  Red  Dog  like  four  kings  an'  an 
ace." 

"  Whatever  was  this  yere  ghost  dancer  you  adverts 
to  lecturin'  about  ?"  asks  Jack  Moore. 

"  I  never  do  hear  the  first  of  it,"  replies  Boggs. 
"  Me  an'  Old  Monte,  the  stage  driver,  is  projectin' 


214  SANDBURRS 

about  Tucson  at  the  time  we  strikes  this  lecture  game, 
an'  it's  about  half  dealt  out  when  he  gets  in  on  it. 
But  as  far  as  we  keeps  tabs,  he's  talkin'  about  Roosia 
an'  Siberia,  an'  how  they  were  pesterin*  an*  playin'  it 
low  on  the  Jews.  He  has  a  lay-out  of  maps  an'  sech, 
an'  packs  the  whole  racket  with  him  from  deal  box  to 
check-rack.  Folks  as  sabes  lectures  allows  he  turns  as 
strong  a  game,  with  as  high  a  limit,  as  any  sport  that 
ever  charged  four  bits  for  a  back  seat.  The  lecture 
sharp's  all  right;  the  question  is  do  you-alls  deem 
highly  of  the  scheme?  If  it's  the  sense  of  this  yere 
town,  it  don't  take  two  days  to  cut  this  short-horn  out 
of  the  Tucson  herd  an'  drive  him  over  yere. 

"  Onder  other,  an'  what  one  might  call  a  more  con 
crete  condition  of  public  feelin',"  says  Doc  Peets, 
cutting  rapidly  and  diplomatically  into  the  talk,  "  the 
hint  of  our  esteemed  townsman  would  be  accepted  on 
the  instant.  But  to  my  mind  this  yere  camp  ain't  in 
no  proper  frame  of  mind  for  lectures  on  Roosia.  It  '11 
be  full  of  trouble, — sech  a  talk.  I  sabes  Roosia  as 
well  as  I  does  an  ace.  Thar's  an  old  silver  tip  they 
calls  the  Czar,  which  is  their  language  for  a  sort  o' 
national  chief  of  scouts,  an*  he's  always  trackin'  'round 
for  trouble.  Thar's  bound  to  be  no  end  of  what  you 
might  call  turmoil  in  a  lecture  on  Roosia,  and  the 
sensibilities  of  Wolfville,  already  harrowed,  ain't  in  no 
shape  to  bear  it.  Now,  while  friend  Boggs  has  been 
talkin',  my  idees  has  followed  off  a  different  waggon 
track.  What  we-all  needs,  is  not  so  much  a  lecture, 
which  is  for  a  day,  but  somethin'  lastin',  sech  as  the 
example  of  a  refined  an'  elevated  home  life  abidin'  in 
our  very  midst.  What  Wolfville  pines  for  is  the  mol- 
lifyin'  inflooence  of  woman.  Shorely  we  has  Faro 


MISTRESS  KILLIFER  215 

Nell !  who  is  pleasantly  present  with  us,  a-settin'  back 
thar  alongside  Cherokee  Hall;  an'  that  gent  never 
makes  a  moccasin  track  in  Wolfville  who  don't  prize 
an'  value  Nell.  Thar  ain't  a  six-shooter  in  camp  but 
what  would  bark  itse'f  hoarse  in  her  behalf.  But 
Nell's  young  ;  merely  a  yearlin'  as  it  were.  What  we 
wants  is  the  picture  of  a  happy  household  where  the 
feminine  part  tharof,  in  the  triple  capacity  of  woman, 
wife  an*  mother,  while  cherishin'  an'  carin'  for  her 
husband,  sheds  likewise  a  radiant  inflooence  for  us." 

"  Whoopee !  for  Doc  Peets ! "  shouts  Faro  Nell, 
flourishing  her  broad  sombrero  over  her  young  curls. 

"  Pausin*  only  to  thank  our  fair  young  towns- 
woman,"  says  Doc  Peets,  bowing  gallantly  to  Faro 
Nell,  who  waves  her  hand  in  return,  "  for  her  endorse 
ments,  which  the  same  is  as  flatterin'  as  it  is  priceless, 
I  stampedes  on  to  say  that  I  learns  from  first  sources, 
indeed  from  the  gent  himse'f,  that  one  of  the  worthiest 
citizens  of  Wolfville,  Mr.  Killifer,  who  is  on  the  map 
as  blacksmith  at  the  stage  station,  has  a  wife  in  the 
states.  I  would  recommend  that  Mr.  Killifer  be  re 
quested  to  bring  on  this  esteemable  lady  to  keep  camp 
for  him.  The  O.  K.  Restaurant  will  lose  a  customer, 
the  same  bein'  the  joint  where  Kif  gets  his  daily  con- 
came  ;  but  Rucker,  the  landlord,  will  not  repine  for 
that.  What  will  be  Rucker's  loss  will  be  general  gain, 
an'  for  the  welfare  of  Wolfville,  Rucker  makes  a  sacri 
fice.  Mr.  Chairman,  my  su'gestion  takes  the  form  of 
a  motion." 

"  Which  said  motion,"  responds  Enright,  with  such 
vigorous  application  of  his  fist  to  the  purpose  of  a 
gavel  that  nervous  spirits  might  well  fear  for  the  re 
sults,  "  which  said  motion,  onless  I  hears  a  protest, 


2i6  SANDBURRS 

goes  as  it  lays.  Thar  bein'  no  objection  the  chair  de 
clares  it  to  be  the  commands  of  Wolfville  that  Syd 
Killifer  bring  on  his  wife.  What  heaven  has  j'ined 
together,  let  no  gent " 

"  See  yere,  Mr.  Chairman  !  "  interposes  Killifer,  with 
a  mixture  of  decision  and  diffidence,  "  I  merely  inter 
feres  to  ask  whether,  as  the  he'pless  victim  of  this  on- 
looked  for  uprisin',  do  my  feelin's  count  ?  Which  if  I 
ain't  in  this — if  it's  regarded  as  the  correct  caper  to 
lay  waste  the  future  of  a  gent,  who  in  his  lowly  way 
is  doin'  his  best  to  make  good  his  hand,  why  !  I  ain't 
got  nothin*  to  say.  I'm  impugnin'  no  gent's  motives, 
but  I'm  free  to  remark,  these  yere  proceeding  strikes 
me  as  the  froote  of  reckless  caprice." 

"  I  will  say  to  our  fellow  gent,"  says  Enright  with 
much  dignity,  "that  thar's  no  disp'sition  to  force  a 
play  to  which  he  seems  averse.  If  from  any  knowledge 
we  s'posed  we  entertained  of  the  possession  of  a  sperit 
on  his  part,  which  might  rise  to  the  aid  of  a  general 
need — I  shorely  hopes  I  makes  my  meanin'  plain — we 
over-deals  the  kyards,  all  we  can  do  is  to  throw  our 
hands  in  the  diskyard  an'  shuffle  an'  deal  ag'in." 

"  Not  at  all,  an'  no  offence  given,  took  or  meant !  " 
hastily  retorts  Killifer,  as  he  balances  himself  uneasily 
upon  his  feet,  and  surveys  first,  Enright  and  then 
Peets.  "  I  has  the  highest  regard  for  the  chair,  per 
sonal,  an'  takes  frequent  occasion  to  remark  that  I 
looks  on  Doc  Peets  as  the  best  eddicated  scientist  I 
ever  sees  in  my  life.  But  this  yere  surge  into  my  do 
mestic  arrangements  needs  to  be  considered.  You- 
alls  don't  know  the  lady  in  question,  which,  bein'  as 
it's  my  wife,  I  ain't  assoomin'  no  airs  when  I  says  I 
does." 


MISTRESS  KILLIFER  217 

"  Does  she  look  like  me,  Kif  ?  "  asks  Faro  Nell  from 
her  perch  near  Cherokee  Hall. 

"None  whatever,  Nell!"  responds  Killifer.  "To 
be  shore  !  I  ain't  basked  none  in  her  society  for  several 
years,  an'  my  mem'ry  is  no  doubt  blurred  by  stam 
pedes,  an'  prairie  fires,  an'  cyclones,  an'  lynchin's,  an' 
other  features  of  a  frontier  career ;  but  she  puts  me  in 
mind,  as  I  recalls  the  lady,  of  an  Injun  uprisin'  more'n 
anythin'  else.  Still,  she's  as  good  a  woman  as  ever 
founds  a  flap-jack.  But  she's  haughty ;  that's  what 
she  is,  she's  haughty. 

"  I  might  add,"  goes  on  Killifer,  in  a  deprecatory 
way,  "  that  inasmuch  as  I  ain't  jest  lookin'  for  the  camp 
yere  to  turn  to  me  in  its  hour  of  need,  this  proposal  to 
transplant  the  person  onder  discussion  to  Wolfville,  is 
an  honour  as  onexpected  as  a  rattlesnake  in  a  roll  of 
blankets.  But  you-alls  knows  me !  " — And  here  Kil 
lifer  braces  himself  desperately. — "What  the  camp 
says,  goes  !  I'm  a  vox  popnli  sort  of  sport,  an'  the  last 
citizen  to  lay  down  on  a  duty.  Still !  " — here  Killifer's 
courage  begins  to  ebb  a  little — "  I  advises  we  go  about 
this  yere  enterprise  mighty  conserv'tive.  My  wife  has 
her  notions,  an'  now  I  thinks  of  it  she  ain't  likely  to 
esteem  none  high  neither  of  our  Wolfville  ways.  All 
I  can  say,  gents,  is  that  if  she  takes  a  notion  ag'in  us, 
she's  as  liable  to  break  even  as  any  lady  I  knows." 

"  Thar  ain't  a  gent  here  but  what  honours  Kif,"  says 
the  sanguine  Peets,  as  he  looks  encouragingly  at  Killi 
fer,  who  has  resumed  his  seat  and  is  gloomily  shaking 
his  head,  "  for  bein'  frank  an'  free  in  this." 

"  Which  I  don't  want  you-alls  to  spread  your  blank 
ets  on  no  ant-hill,  an'  then  blame  me  !  "  interrupts 
Killifer  dejectedly. 


218  SANDBURRS 

"  I  believe,  Mr.  Chairman,"  continues  Doc  Peets, 
"  we  fully  onderstands  the  feelin's  of  our  townsman  in 
this  matter.  But  I'm  convinced  of  the  correctness  of 
my  first  view.  Thar  can  shorely  be  nothin'  in  the  daily 
life  of  Wolfville  at  which  the  lady  could  aim  a  criticism, 
an'  we  needs  the  beneficent  example  of  a  home.  I 
would  tharfore  insist  on  my  plan  with  perhaps  a  mod 
ification." 

"  I  rises  to  ask  the  Preesidin'  Officer  a  question  !  "  in 
terrupts  Dave  Tutt. 

"  Let  her  roll !  "  retorts  Enright. 

"  How  would  it  be  to  invite  Kif  s  wife  to  come  yere 
on  a  visit  ?  "  queries  Tutt.  "  Sorter  take  her  on  pro 
bation  !  That's  the  way  an  oncle  of  mine  back  in 
Missouri  j'ines  the  Meth'dist  Church.  An'  it's  lucky 
the  congregation  takes  them  precautions ;  which  they 
saves  the  trouble  of  cuttin'  the  old  felon  out  of  the 
herd  later,  when  he  falls  from  grace.  Which  last  he 
shorely  does  !  " 

"  Not  waitin'  for  the  chair  to  answer,"  replies  Doc 
Peets,  "  I  holds  the  limitation  of  Tutt  to  be  good.  I 
tharfore  pinches  down  my  original  resolootion  to  the 
effect  that  Kif  bring  his  wife  yere  for  a  month.  Let 
her  stack  up  ag'inst  our  daily  game,  an'  triumph 
through  a  deal  or  so,  an'  she'll  never  quit  Wolfville 
nor  Wolfville  her.  I  shorely  holds  the  present  occa 
sion  the  openin'  of  a  new  era." 

It  is  a  month  later,  perhaps,  when  everybody  as 
sembles  at  the  post-office  to  receive  the  lady  on  whom 
the  local  public  has  built  so  many  hopes.  Killifer  has 
gone  over  to  Tucson  to  act  as  her  escort  into  Wolfville, 

o 

and,  as  he  said,  "  to  sorter  break  the  effect." 

She  is  an  iron-visaged  heroine.     As  Killifer  hands 


THE    PROPRIETOR    OF   THE    ONLY    STIFF    HAT    IN    TOWN." — Page 


MISTRESS  KILLIFER  219 

her  from  the  stage — a  ceremony  upon  which  he  be 
stows  that  delicate  care  wherewith  he  would  have 
aided  the  unloading  of  so  much  dynamite — Doc  Peets 
steps  gallantly  forward,  raising  his  hat.  Doc  Peets  is 
the  proprietor  of  the  only  stiff  hat  in  town,  and  pre 
sumes  on  it. 

"  Who  is  that  insultin'  drunkard,  Mr.  Killifer  ?  "  de 
mands  the  lady,  as  she  bends  her  eyes  on  the  suave 
Peets,  with  such  point-blank  wrath  that  it  silences 
the  salutation  on  Peets'  lips  ;  "  no  friend  of  your'n  I 
hope?" 

''Which  I  says  it  in  confidence,"  remarks  Old  Monte, 
as  an  hour  later  he  refreshes  himself  at  the  bar  of  the 
Red  Light,  "  for  I  holds  it  onprofessional  to  go  blowin' 
the  private  affairs  of  my  passengers,  but  I  shorely 
thinks  the  old  grizzly  gives  Kif  a  clawin'  on  the  way 
over.  I  hears  him  yell  like  a  wolf  back  in  Long's 
canyon.  To  be  shore  !  he's  inside  an'  I  can't  see,  but 
I'm  offerin'  two  to  one  up  to  $100  she  was  lickin'  him; 
if  I  don't  I'm  a  Siwash  ! " 

It  turns  out  as  Killifer  predicted.  He  read  the  lady 
aright.  There  is  nothing  in  Wolfville  to  which  she 
yields  approval.  It  would  be  as  impossible  as  it  would 
be  terrific,  to  repeat  in  print  the  conduct  of  this  re 
markable  woman.  She  utterly  abashes  Enright ;  while 
such  hare-hearts  as  Jack  Moore,  Cherokee  Hall,  Dave 
Tutt,  Texas  Thompson,  Short  Creek  Dave  and  Dan 
Boggs,  fly  from  her  like  quicksilver.  Even  Doc  Peets 
acknowledges  himself  defeated  and  put  to  naught. 
The  least  of  her  feats  is  the  invasion  of  a  peaceful 
poker  game  to  which  Killifer  is  party,  and  the  sweep 
ing  confiscation  of  every  dollar  in  the  bank  on  claim 
that  it  is  money  ravished  from  Killifer  by  venal  prac- 


220  SANDBURRS 

tices.  The  mildest  of  her  plans  is  one  to  assail  the 
Red  Light  with  an  axe,  should  she  ever  detect  the 
odour  of  whiskey  about  Killifer  again. 

"An*  do  you  know,  Doc!"  observes  Enright,  a  fort 
night  later,  as  they  meet  for  their  midday  drink,  "  the 
boys  sorter  lays  it  on  you.  You  know  me,  Doc  !  I'll 
stand  up  ag'in  the  iron  for  you  ;  but  as  a  squar'  man, 
with  a  fairly  balanced  mind,  I'm  bound  to  admit  the 
boys  is  right.  Now  I  don't  say  they  feels  resentful  ; 
it's  more  like  they  was  mournful  over  what  used  to  be, 
an'  a  day  of  peace  gone  by.  But  you  knows  what  peo 
ple  be  whose  burdens  is  more'n  they  can  bear;  an'  if  I 
was  you,  this  yere  lady  or  I  would  leave  the  camp. 
I'm  the  last  gent  to  go  dictatin'  about  the  details  of 
another  gent's  game  ;  but  you  an'  me,  Doc,  has  been 
old  friends,  an'  as  awarnin'  from  a  source  which  means 
you  well,  I  gives  it  to  you  cold  the  camp  is  gettin' 
hostile." 

It  is  always  a  spectacle  to  inspire,  to  witness  a  great 
soul  rise  to  an  occasion.  Doc  Peets  never  so  proves 
the  power  of  his  nature  as  now,  when  the  tremendous 
shadow  of  "  Kif's  wife"  has  fallen  across  Wolfville  like 
a  blight.  Peets,  following  Enright's  forebodings,  holds 
a  long  and  secret  conference  with  the  unhappy  Killifer. 
That  night  Peets  rides  to  Tucson.  The  next  day  Old 
Monte,  with  his  six  horses  a-foam,  comes  crashing  into 
Wolfville  two  hours  ahead  of  schedule.  Before  even 
a  mail  bag  is  thrown  off,  Old  Monte  unpouches  a  tele 
gram  received  at  the  Tucson  office  for  Mistress  Killifer. 
Its  earmark  is  Illinois  ;  its  contents  moving.  No  mat 
ter  what  it  tells,  its  news  is  cogent  enough  to  decide 
the  lady's  mind. 

The  next  morning  this  dread  woman  departs,  leav- 


MISTRESS  KILLIFER  221 

ing,  as  she  came,  with  a  withering  look  at  all  around. 
That  night  Killifer  gets  drunk.  Wolfville  not  only 
pardons  Killifer  in  his  weakness  ;  it  joins  him. 

"  But  you  suppresses  the  facts,  Kif,  when  you  says 
she's  haughty,"  observes  Dan  Boggs.  "  Haughty,  as 
a  deescription,  ain't  a  six-spot  !  " 

"  It's  with  no  purpose,  Kif,"  says  Doc  Peets,  as  he 
fills  his  glass,  "  to  discourage  you — whom  I  sympathises 
with  as  an  onfortunate,  an'  respects  as  a  dead  game 
gent — that  I  yereby  invites  the  pop'lation  to  join  me 
in  a  drink  of  congratulation  on  Wolfville's  escape  from 
your  wife.  An*  all  informal  though  this  assemblage 
be,  I  offers  a  resolootion  that  this,  the  23d  of  August, 
the  date  when  the  lady  in  question  pulls  her  freight, 
be  an'  remain  forevermore  a  day  of  yearly  thanksgivin' 
to  Wolfville." 

"  Which  I  libates  to  that  myse'f  !  "  says  Killifer  as 
he  drains  his  cup  to  the  last  lingering  drop.  "  Also  I 
trusts  this  camp  will  proceed  with  caution  the  next 
time  it  turns  in  to  play  my  domestic  hand." 


BEARS 

BEARS  are  peaceful  folk.  They  are  a  mild  and  lowly 
citizenry  of  the  woods — I'm  talking  of  the  black  sort — 
and  shuffle  modestly  away  the  moment  they  hear  you 
coming.  We  get  many  of  our  impressions  of  the 
ferocity  of  animals  and  the  deadly  poisons  of  reptiles 
from  an  unworthy  sort  of  hearsay  evidence.  Much  of 
it  comes  from  Mexicans  and  Indians  rather  than  from 
real  experience.  Now  I  wouldn't  traduce  either  the 
Mexicans  or  the  Indians,  for  their  lot  is  one  of  hard, 
sodden  ignorance  ;  but  it  must  be  conceded  that  they're 
by  no  means  careful  historians,  and  run  readily  to  tales 
of  the  marvellous  and  the  tragic.  I  am  going  back  to 
a  bear  story  I  have  in  mind  before  I  get  through ;  but 
I  want  to  interject  here,  while  I  think  of  it,  that 
though  the  centipede,  the  rattlesnake,  the  tarantula 
and  the  Gila  monster,  have  bitter  repute  as  able  to 
deal  death  with  their  poisonous  feet  or  fangs,  I  was 
never,  in  my  years  on  the  plains  and  in  the  mountains, 
able  to  secure  proof  of  even  the  shallowest  sort  that  a 
death,  whether  of  man  or  animal,  had  ever  resulted 
from  the  sting  of  any  one  of  these.  On  the  other 
hand,  I  have  been  with  men  who  were  bitten  by  rattle 
snakes,  or  stung  by  tarantulas;  or  who  while  asleep 
had  suffered  as  the  inadvertent  promenade  of  a  centi 
pede,  with  its  hundred  hooked,  poison-exuding  feet ; 

but  none  of  them  died.     They  were  sick  in  an  out-of- 

222 


BEARS  223 

sort,  headache  fashion  for  a  day  or  two  ;  the  bitten 
place  inflamed  and  was  sore  for  a  week  or  a  month  ; 
that  was  all.  I  suppose  I've  known  of  fully  one  hundred 
horses,  cows  and  sheep  which  were  bitten  by  rattle 
snakes  ;  none  died.  They  were  invariably  fanged  in 
the  nose,  too,  as  they  grazed  towards  my  lord  of  the 
rattlers.  On  more  than  one  occasion  I  kept  the  animal 
so  bitten  in  sight  to  note  results.  Its  head  would 
swell  and  puff ;  it  would  lounge  about  with  a  sick  list- 
lessness  for  several  days  ;  then  the  poison  would  wear 
away  in  force,  and  back  to  its  grass  it  would  go  with 
the  wire-edge  appetite  of  a  sailor  home  from  sea. 

But  about  bears.  I  was  remarking  that  my  black, 
shaggy  cousins  of  the  woods  were  a  peaceful  folk.  So 
much  is  this  true,  and  so  little  do  their  neighbours  ap 
prehend  violence  at  their  clumsy  hands,  that  they  who 
live  in  regions  which  abound  in  bears  evince  not 
the  least  alarm  about  the  safety  of  their  children.  The 
babies,  some  as  young  as  five  or  six  years,  roam  the 
same  mountains  with  the  bears ;  and,  while  the  latter 
will  swoop  upon  a  pig  and  run  dangers  with  wide-open 
eyes  in  doing  it,  never  did  I  hear  of  one  who  disturbed 
a  ringlet  on  a  child's  head.  They  had  daily  opportu 
nities  enough,  for  many  are  the  households  to  live  in 
the  wide,  pine-sown  Rockies. 

Our  bears,  too,  are  creatures  of  vast  physical  power. 
Often,  as  I  rode  the  mountain  for  cattle,  have  I  come 
across  a  dead  and  fallen  pine  tree,  which  would  have 
defeated  the  best  efforts  of  a  horse  to  move,  completely 
torn  from  its  bed  in  the  earth  and  leaves,  and  either 
overturned  or  thrown  one  side  by  the  mighty  arms  of 
a  bear.  He  was  in  search  of  a  dinner  cf  grubs — those 
white,  helpless  worms  which  make  their  dull  homes 


224  SANDBURRS 

under  rotten  logs — and  Sir  Bear  made  no  more  ado  of 
lifting  and  laying  aside  a  pine  tree  in  his  grub-hunt 
than  would  you  or  I  of  a  billet  of  firewood. 

While  in  the  mountains  I  marvelled  over  the  fact 
that  the  bears  and  the  mountain  lions  never  assailed 
the  young  calves.  The  hills  were  rife  with  cattle,  and 
every  spring  found  the  canyons  and  oak-bushed  slopes 
a  perfect  nursery  of  calves.  And  yet  neither  the  pan 
thers  nor  the  bears  disturbed  them.  It  was  due,  I 
think,  more  to  the  bellicose  character  of  the  old  cow 
and  her  relatives,  than  any  uprightness  of  character  on 
the  part  of  the  bears,  and  the  panthers.  Let  a  calf 
raise  but  one  yell  of  distress  in  those  mountains — and 
I  assure  you  he  can  make  their  walls  and  valleys  ring 
with  his  youthful  music  when  so  disposed — and,  out 
of  canyons  and  off  mesas,  over  logs  and  crashing 
through  the  oak  bushes,  will  come  plunging  all  the 
cattle  within  hearing.  Not  thirty  seconds  will  elapse 
before  as  many  cattle  will  be  by  the  side  of  the  threat 
ened  calf,  lusting  for  battle.  They  make  such  a  pha 
lanx  of  sharp,  threatening  horns,  coupled  with  their 
rolling,  wrath-red  eyes  and  ferocious  breathings,  that,  I 
warrant  you,  they  have  so  shocked  the  nerves  of  past 
bears  and  panthers,  it  has  become  instinct  with  these 
latter  to  give  the  whole  horned,  truculent  brood  a 
wide  berth. 

The  Indians  are  very  fond  of  the  bear  for  his  wisdom, 
and  he  divides  their  respect  with  the  beaver  as  a  per 
sonage  of  sagacity.  The  curiosity  of  my  shaggy  friend 
would  shame  any  boy  or  girl  of  ten.  You  may  be 
sure,  were  a  bear  to  visit  you  for  a  week  at  your  home, 
he  would  open  every  door,  ransack  every  bureau,  take 
every  garment  off  every  hook  in  every  closet — and  I 


BEARS  225 

had  almost  said  try  it  on  " — before  he  had  been  with 
you  an  hour.  Not  a  box  nor  a  barrel,  not  a  nook  nor 
cranny,  from  cellar  to  ridge  pole,  would  escape  his  in 
vestigation.  His  black  nose  would  sniff  at  every  crack, 
his  black  hand  explore  every  crevice.  Nor,  beyond 
what  he  bestowed  in  his  remorseless  stomach,  would 
he  destroy  anything.  I  have  the  black  coat  of  a  bear 
at  my  house,  who  might  be  wearing  it  himself  to-day, 
were  it  not  for  his  curiosity. 

There  was  a  salt  spring  near  my  camp  on  the  upper 
Red  River;  perhaps  two  miles  away,  which  is  "  near" 
in  the  mountains.  This  salt  spring  was  popular  with 
the  deer.  They  repaired  thither  to  lick  the  salt  earth 
about  the  waters.  I  had,  among  the  lumber  at  my 
camp,  a  big,  two-spring  trap  of  steel ;  I  suppose  it 
must  have  weighed  sixty  pounds.  It  occurred  to  me 
that  a  lazy  way  to  kill  a  deer  would  be  to  set  this  wide- 
jawed  engine  near  the  spring  and  let  one  walk  into  it. 
I'm  not  proud  of  this  plan  as  a  method  in  deer-killing, 
and  wouldn't  do  it  now.  On  this  occasion,  however  I 
was  not  particular.  I  "  set  "  the  trap  at  my  camp — for 
I  had  to  use  a  hand-spike  to  crush  down  the  springs, 
and  it  all  gave  me  a  deal  of  work  and  trouble — and 
then,  with  its  jaws  wide  open,  but  held  so  that  it 
wouldn't  nip  me  in  case  it  did  snap,  I  crept  carefully 
aboard  my  pony  and  rode  over  to  the  spring.  The 
next  morning  early  I  had  to  go  again  to  remove  the 
trap,  as  during  the  day  the  cattle  would  take  the  places 
of  the  deer  at  this  delectable  salt  spring,  and  I  didn't 
care  to  break  the  legs  of  a  thirty-dollar  steer  with  my 
trapping.  I  went  over  while  it  was  yet  dark,  and 
found  no  deer  in  the  trap.  I  took  it  and  hid  it,  face 
downward — the  jaws  still  spread  and  "  set  " — by  the 


226  SANDBURRS 

of  a  big  yellow  pine  log,  which  stretched  its  decayed 
length  along  the  slope  of  the  canyon.  There  I  left  it, 
intending  to  return  and  rearrange  it  for  deer  at  dusk. 

It  snowed  that  day,  and  as  I  grew  lazy  towards 
night,  I  left  my  trap  where  I'd  hidden  it  by  the  yellow 
pine  log.  The  deer  would  have  one  night  of  safety. 
What  was  safety  for  the  deer  proved  otherwise  for  the 
bear. 

The  following  day  I  rode  over  just  as  the  canyons 
were  getting  dark  and  the  cattle  climbing  out  of  them 
to  pass  the  night  on  the  hills.  Behold !  my  trap  was 
gone  ! 

There  was  a  great  flourish  of  tracks  in  the  snow  ; 
long  plantigrade  impressions  like  the  bare  footprints 
of  some  giant  !  I  knew  that  a  bear  had  somehow  ac 
quired  my  trap,  or  the  trap,  him  ;  at  that  time  I 
couldn't  tell  which.  To  make  it  short,  however,  it 
came  to  this :  The  bear,  scouting  in  a  loaferish  way 
down  the  hill,  and  pausing  no  doubt  to  make  an  esti 
mate  of  the  probable  grubs  he  would  find  beneath  this 
particular  yellow  pine  next  summer,  had  chanced  upon 
the  trap.  Here  was  a  great  find.  Thoughts  of  grubs 
and  common  edible  things  at  once  deserted  him.  The 
mysterious  novelty  he  had  found  took  possession  of 
his  addle-pate  like  a  new  toy.  A  wolf  or  a  fox  would 
have  smelled  the  odour  of  my  handling,  even  off  the 
cold  steel  of  the  trap,  and  been  over  the  hills  and  far 
away  in  a  twinkling.  Your  wolf  is  the  canniest  of 
timber  folk;  a  grey  Scotchman  of  the  mountains.  But 
my  bear  was  reared  on  a  different  bottle.  He  sat  down 
at  once  and  actually  took  the  new  plaything  in  his  lap. 
Then  it  would  seem  as  if  he  deliberately  thrust  his 
paw  into  it  and  sprung  its  savage  jaws  on  his  forearm. 


BEARS  227 

In  his  first  wrathful  surprise,  my  bear  tore  up  the  snow 
and  bushes  for  twenty  feet  about  ;  but  at  last  he  set 
off  with  the  trap  on  his  foot. 

It  was  late.  For  half  an  hour  I  followed  the  broad 
track  where  his  bearship  had  dragged  the  trap  in  the 
snow  at  a  gallop.  It  was  dark  when  at  last  I  turned 
off  for  camp.  Bright  and  betimes,  I  took  the  trail  next 
day.  It  carried  me  over  some  ten  miles  of  rough,  close 
country.  About  midday  I  stood  on  the  bluff  edge  of 
the  Canyon  Caliente,  picking  a  pathway  with  my  eyes 
along  its  steep,  perilous  side  for  my  pony  to  get  down. 
The  bear  had  crossed  here  ;  but  he  was  in  the  roughest 
of  moods,  and  seemingly  made  no  more  of  hurling 
himself  over  twenty-foot  precipices — himself  and  my 
trap — or  sublimely  sliding  down  dangerous  descents  of 
hundreds  of  feet  where  foothold  was  impossible,  than 
you  would  of  eating  buttered  buns.  So  I  had  to  pick 
out  paths  for  myself  ;  I  couldn't  trust  to  so  reckless 
and  uncivil  an  engineer  as  my  bear. 

As  I  sat  in  the  saddle  running  a  quick  eye  over  the 
slope  for  a  trail,  I,  of  an  instant,  heard  a  most  surpris 
ing  noise.  It  was  indeed  a  noble  racket,  and  might 
have  passed  for  a  blacksmith  shop.  But  I  knew  the 
hills  too  well.  It  was  of  a  verity  my  bear;  and  from 
the  riot  he  was  making,  it  was  plain  I  would  have  to 
get  there  soon  if  I  wanted  to  save  the  trap. 

This  formidable  uproar  came  from  across  the  Cali 
ente,  perhaps  half  a  mile.  I  slid  from  the  saddle  and 
went  forward  afoot.  It  didn't  take  long  to  cover  the 
distance.  I  fell  and  tumbled  down  the  first  third, 
much  as  the  bear  had  done  a  bit  earlier. 

Once  on  the  other  side,  I  came  upon  my  rough 
gentleman  cautiously,  and  found  him  sitting  by  the 


228  SANDBURRS 

side  of  a  round,  boulder-like  rock,  something  the  size 
and  contour  of  a  load  of  hay.  And  he  was  smiting 
the  enduring  granite  with  my  trap  in  a  way  which  told 
more  of  his  feelings  than  would  have  been  possible 
with  mere  words.  He  would  raise  his  arm  clumsily, 
6o-pound  trap  and  all,  and  then  bring  it  against  the 
rock  with  all  the  fervour  of  rage  and  giant  strength. 

He  was  so  wrapt  in  the  enterprise,  he  never  heard 
me  until  a  shot  from  my  Winchester  met  him  just 
under  the  ear.  One  shot  did  it ;  and  I  had  trap  and 
bear.  He  had  ruined  the  trap  ;  one  spring  was  broken 
and  the  whole  disparaged  beyond  my  power  to  repair. 
Wherefore  I  stripped  him  of  his  black  overcoat  to  pay 
for  the  damage  he  had  done  ;  and  that  and  the  grease 
I  took  from  him  covered  all  costs  and  damages. 


THE  BIG  TOUCH 

(ANNALS  OF  THE  BEND) 

"  ME  fren',  Mollie  Matches,"  observed  Chucky. 

That  was  our  introduction.  A  moment  later  Chucky 
whispered  in  a  hoarse  aside  : 

"  Matches  is  d'  dip  I  chins  youse  about,  who  gets  d' 
Hummin'  Boid  t'run  into  him." 

"  Matches,"  as  Chucky  called  him,  was  a  sad,  grey, 
broken  man.  Years  and  a  life  of  flight  and  anxious 
furtivity  had  told  on  him.  His  eye  was  dancing  and 
birdlike  ;  resting  on  nothing,  roving  always  ;  the  sure 
mark  of  one  sort  of  criminal.  Matches  drank  for  an 
hour  before  he  felt  at  ease.  That  time  arrived,  how 
ever,  and  I  took  advantage  of  it  to  feed  my  curiosity. 
It  was  no  easy  matter,  but  at  last  I  won  him  by  a  deft 
blending  of  flattery  and  drink  to  talk  of  his  crimes. 
And  indeed  I  fear — for  I  suppose  the  expert  thief  does 
plume  himself  a  bit  on  his  art — that  Matches  took 
some  sort  of  wretched  pride  in  his  illicit  pocket  search- 
ings. 

"  D'  biggest  touch  I  ever  makes,"  said  Matches,  in 
response  to  a  query,  "  was  $36,000  ;  quite  a  bunch  of 
dough.  Gettin'  it  was  easy  ;  gettin'  away  wit'  it  was 
d'  squeak. 

"  We  toins  d'  trick  on  d'  train  from  Albany.     D'  tip 

comes  straight  to  me  in  New  York  that  a  bloke  is  goin' 

229 


230  SANDBURRS 

to  draw  $36,000  from  d'  Albany  bank  on  such  a  day. 
I  makes  up  a  mob  ;  t'ree  stalls  an'  meself ; — all  pretty 
fly  we  was — an'  lands  in  Albany. 

"  We  gets  onto  d'  party  who's  to  be  woiked  early  in 
d'  mornin',  an'  shadows  him  so  clost  he's  never  out  of 
reach.  Our  play  is  to  follow  him  to  d'  bank  an'  do 
him  wit'  d'  drop  game.  If  that  misses,  we're  to  stay 
wit'  him  till  d'  bundle's  ours  be  one  racket  or  another. 

"  This  sucker  is  pretty  soon  himself,  see  !  He  ain't 
such  a  mut  as  we  riggers.  His  train  starts  at  I  o'clock, 
an*  he  takes  in  d'  bank  on  his  way  to  d'  station. 

"  Of  course  we  was  wit'  him  ;  but  he's  dead  leary  an' 
never  t'rows  himself  open  to  be  woiked.  D'  stuff  is  in 
t'ousand-dollar  willyums,  an'  as  he  just  sinks  it  in  his 
keck  d'  minute  his  hooks  is  onto  it,  an'  never  stops  to 
count  or  run  his  lamps  over  it,  we  don't  get  no  chanct 
to  do  d'  drop.  D'  instant  d'  money's  in  his  mits  he 
plants  it — all  stretched  out  long  in  a  big  leather,  it  is — 
in  his  inside  pocket,  an'  screws  his  nut  for  d'  door.  D' 
hack  slams  an'  he's  on  his  way  to  d'  train. 

"  Yes ;  we  starts  for  d'  station  be  another  street.  D' 
bloke  ain't  onto  us  yet,  an'  we  tries  not  to  plant  a  scare 
into  him.  He's  leary  enough  as  it  is  ;  just  havin'  such 
a  roll  wit*  him  rattles  him. 

"  So  I  makes  up  me  mind  to  do  d'  job  on  d'  train 
runnin'  into  New  York.  As  he  sinks  d'  stuff  away,  I 
notes  how  d'  ends  of  d'  bills  sticks  out  over  d'  pocket- 
book.  Me  idee  is  to  weed  it — get  d'  dough  an'  leave  d' 
leather  in  his  pocket — if  I  can  make  d'  play.  Weedin' 
was  d'  way  to  do ;  you  gets  d'  long  green  an'  d'  sucker 
still  has  d'  leather  to  feel  of,  an*  it's  some  time  before 
he  tumbles  he's  been  touched,  see  ! 

"  D'  guy  wit'  d'  stuff  plants  himself  in  a  seat.     Two 


THE  BIG  TOUCH  231 

of  me  stalls  sits  ahead  of  him,  me  an'  me  other  pal  is 
behint  him.  We  only  waits  now  for  him  to  get  up  an' 
come  along  d'  aisle  of  d'  car  to  get  in  our  hooks. 

"  Foist  I  goes  d'  len'th  of  d'  train  to  see  who's  onto 
it.  I  always  does  that  ;  I  wants  to  see  if  any  guy 
aboard  knows  Mollie  Matches.  You  see,  if  there  is, 
when  d'  holler  comes,  an'  some  duck  declares  himself 
shy  his  spark,  or  roll,  or  ticker,  it's  40  to  I  Mr.  Know- 
all,  who's  onto  me  for  a  crook,  sends  a  tip  to  d'  p'lice  : 
'  Matches  was  on  d'  train  !  '  an'  I  gets  d'  collar.  No, 
I  never  woiks  when  one  of  me  acquaintances  is  along 
be  accident.  D'  cops,  in  such  case,  as  I  says,  is  put 
onto  me  an'  spots  me  wit'  d'  foist  yell. 

"  I  covers  d'  train  an'  comes  back.  There's  no  guy 
on  me  visiting  list  who's  along.  So  I  sits  down  wit' 
me  pal  to  d'  rear  of  d'  sucker  an'  waits. 

"  It's  not  for  long.  D'  leather's  still  in  his  inside 
keck,  'cause  I  can  see  him  pressin'  on  it  wit'  his  mit  to 
make  sure  it's  there.  At  last  he  gets  up  to  go  to  d' 
watercooler.  I  sees  d'  move  comin',  an'  is  in  d'  aisle 
before  him.  So's  me  stalls.  From  start  to  finish  no 
one  bungles  d'  stunt.  There's  a  tangle — all  be  acci 
dent,  of  course — every  mug  'pologises,  we  break  away, 
an'  I've  got  d'  blunt.  But  d'  woist  part  is,  I  can't 
weed  it.  D'  stuff  won't  come  no  other  way,  an'  so  I 
lifts  leather  an'  all. 

"  There's  due  to  be  a  roar  in  no  time; — this  mark's 
bound  to  be  on  he's  frisked  ! — so  I  splits  out  each 
stall's  bit  in  a  hurry  an'  says  :  '  Every  gent  for  him 
self  !  an'  if  youse  is  nipped,  don't  knock  !  '  an'  then  I 
sherries  me  nibs  for  d'  rear  coach.  It  was  great  graft. 
Me  bit  was  $9,000,  an'  I  has  me  plan  all  set  up  to  save 
it  an'  meself  wit'  it.  This  is  d'  racket  I  has  in  me 
cocoa. 


232  SANDBURRS 

"  In  d'  last  coach  is  an  old  w'ite  choker — a  pulpit 
t'umper,  you  understand.  Wit'  him  is  his  daughter, 
an'  wit'  her  is  her  kid.  Mebby  d'  kid,  say,  is  six  years. 
I  heads  for  'em  an'  begins  to  give  d'  old  skate  a  jolly. 
I  was  dead  strong  on  patter  in  them  days,  an*  puts  it 
up  I'm  a  gospel  sharp  from  Hamilton.  I  saws  it  off 
on  his  nibs  how  me  choich  boins  down,  an'  how  I'm 
linin'  out  to  New  York  to  see  if  d'  good  folks  down 
there  won't  spring  their  rolls — cough  up  be  way  of 
donations,  you  understand,  an'  help  us  slam  up  a  new 
box — choich,  I  means — so  we  can  go  back  to  our  graft. 

"  It's  all  right.  Me  razzle  dazzle  takes  like  spring 
water.  In  two  minutes  me  an'  d'  old  party  an'  d'  loidy, 
an'  for  that  matter  d'  kid,  is  t'ick  as  t'ieves.  We  was 
bunched  together,  singin'  'Jesus,  Lover  of  me  Soul,'  to 
beat  four  of  a  kind,  when  d'  galoot  I  skins  for  his 
bundle  lifts  d'  shout  he's  been  done,  see  ! 

"  This  dub  who  lose  is  t'ree  coaches  ahead.  D'  foist 
we  knows  of  his  troubles — all  but  me — d'  Con'  comes 
an*  locks  d'  door.  No  one  can  get  off  d'  train.  Then 
he  stops  an'  taps  d'  wires  wit'  a  machine  from  d'  bag 
gage  car  an'  sends  d'  story  chasin'  into  New  York. 

" '  Party  t'run  down  for  $36,000,  says  d'  message ; 
'  swag  an'  crooks  still  on  me  train.  Send  orders.' 

"  D'  order  comes  to  keep  d'  doors  locked  an'  run  to 
New  York  wit'  no  more  stops.  An'  after  puttin'  a 
Brakey  in  each  coach  to  see  what  goes  on,  that's  what 
dey  does.  We  go  spinnin'  into  New  York  at  forty-five 
miles  an  hour. 

"Naturally,  I'm  in  a  steam.  I  goes  all  right  wit'  d' 
Con',  an'  d'  train  crew,  as  a  sky  pilot,  but  how  was  I 
to  make  d'  riffle  wit'  de  fly  cop  of  New  York,  who'd  be 
waitin'  for  d'  train — me  mug  in  d'  gallery,  an'  four  out 


THE  BIG  TOUCH  233 

o*  five  of  'em  twiggin*  me  be  me  foist  name?  But  I 
t'ought  it  out. 

"  When  d'  train  rumbles  into  d'  Gran'  Central,  d' 
door  is  slammed  open  an*  we  all  gets  up  to  go.  A  fly- 
cop  is  comin'  in  just  as  we  starts.  I  grabs  up  d'  kid  to 
carry  him,  see  !  bein'  d'  old  preacher  party  nor  d'  skirt 
ain't  so  able  as  me. 

"  Say  !  it  was  a  winner.  I  buries  me  map  in  d'  kid's 
make-up,  gets  between  d'  goil  an*  d'  old  stumblin' 
mucker  of  a  gran'dad,  an'  walks  slap  t'rough  d'  entire 
day-push  of  d'  Central  office.  An'  hard,  sharp  marks 
dey  is  to  beat,  see  ! 

"  Fly  dey  is,  but  not  swift  enough  for  Matches  wit 
a  scare  on,  see  !  Not  a  dub  of  'em  tumbles  to  me. 

"  In  two  moves  an'  ten  seconts  I'm  in  d'  street.  As 
I  goes  along  I  pulls  a  ring  off  one  of  me  north  hooks 
wit'  me  teet,'  an'  t'oins  it  over  to  d'  kid  as  his  bit  for 
makin'  d'  good  front  for  me.  No ;  d'  others  don't 
catch  on,  but  d'way  he  cinches  it  in  his  small  mit  shows 
me  he's  goin*  to  save  it  out  for  fair. 

"When  I  hits  d'  street  I  drops  d'  youngone,  who's 
still  froze  to  his  solitaire,  an'  grabs  off  a  cab,  an'  in 
twenty  minutes  I'm  buried  where  all  d'  p'lice  in  New 
York  couldn't  toin  me  up  in  a  t'ousand  years. 

"  No ;  me  pals  got  d'  collar,  an'  each  does  a  stretch. 
But  dey  lays  dead  about  me;  never  peached  nor 
squealed.  I  win  out. 

"  Who  ? — d'  w'ite  choker  an'  his  party?  Nit  ;  never 
hears  of  'em  ag'in.  For  four  days  I  gets  one  of  d' 
fam'ly — he's  a  crook  who's  under  cover  for  a  bank  trick, 
an'  who's  eddicted — to  read  me  all  d'  poipers.  I  wants 
to  see  if  d'  preacher  an'  his  goil  gives  up  anyt'ing  about 
d'  ring  I  swaps  to  d'  kid. 


234  SANDBURRS 

"  Never  hears  a  peep  !  Nixie  ;  dey  was  on  all  right, 
you  bet  your  life !  when  their  lamps  lights  on  that 
jewelry ;  but  most  likely  dey  needs  d'  ring  in  their 
graft.  It  was  a  spark  wort'  five  hundred  cases  from  any 
fence  in  d'  land,  an'  so  d*  old  guy  an'  his  goil  sort  o' 
stan's  for  d'  play,  see  !  " 


THE  FATAL  KEY 

YOUNG  Jenkins  prided  himself  on  sharp  eyes.  He 
said  he  could  "  give  a  hawk  cards  and  spades." 
He  could  find  four-leaf  clovers  where  no  one  else 
could  see  them.  He  took  in  the  smallest  detail  of  the 
scenery  all  about  him. 

As  a  result,  young  Jenkins  was  a  great  finder  of 
small  trifles,  and  that  he  might  miss  nothing,  lost, 
strayed  or  stolen,  he  went  about  during  the  little 
journeys  of  the  day,  with  his  eyes  searching  the 
ground.  And  he  picked  up  many  trinkets  of  a  per 
sonal  sort  that  other  men  had  lost.  Nothing  of  much 
value,  perhaps,  but  it  served  to  please  young  Jenkins, 
and  it  gave  him  a  chance  to  boast  of  the  sharp,  de 
vouring  character  of  his  eyes. 

Even  as  a  child,  young  Jenkins  was  prone  to  find 
things.  He  told  how  once  his  talents  as  a  retriever 
rnadf*  him  the  subject  of  parental  suspicion.  He  was 
ten  years  old  when  he  picked  up  a  four-blade  Barlow 
knife. 

"Where  did  you  get  it?"  queried  old  Jenkins,  as 
young  Jenkins  displayed  his  treasure  trove. 

"  Found  it,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Oh,  you  found  it!"  snorted  old  Jenkins.  "Well, 
take  it  straight  back,  and  put  it  where  you  found  it, 
and  don't  '  find '  any  more.  If  you  do,  I'll  lick  you 
out  of  your  knickerbockers  !  " 


236  SANDBURRS 

In  spite  of  such  discouragement,  young  Jenkins  kept 
on  finding  all  sorts  of  bric-a-brac.  He  does  even  to 
this  day. 

One  evening  young  Jenkins  had  a  disagreeable  ad 
venture,  as  the  fruit  of  his  talent,  which  for  an  hour  or 
so  made  him  wish  he  had  weaker  vision. 

It  was  on  Great  Jones  Street,  and  young  Jenkins, 
hurrying  along,  noticed  in  the  half  moonlight  a  big 
store  key,  where  the  owner  had  dropped  it  just  after 
locking  up  for  the  night.  The  hour  was  full  mid 
night. 

Young  Jenkins  possessed  himself  of  the  key.  He 
looked  at  it  as  he  held  it  in  his  hand,  and  wondered 
how  the  careless  shopman  would  open  up  in  the  morn 
ing  without  it. 

From  where  it  lay  it  wasn't  hard  to  infer  the  store 
to  which  the  key  belonged.  Yet  to  make  sure  on  that 
point  it  occurred  to  young  Jenkins  that  he  might  bet 
ter  try  the  lock  with  it. 

Young  Jenkins  had  just  fitted  the  big  key  to  the 
lock  when  some  one  seized  him  by  the  wrist.  It 
startled  him  so  that  he  dropped  the  key  and  allowed  it 
to  go  rattling  along  the  sidewalk.  As  young  Jenkins 
looked  up  he  saw  that  the  party  who  had  got  him 
was  a  member  of  the  police. 

"  I  was  trying  to  unlock  the  door ! "  stammered 
young  Jenkins. 

"  I  saw  what  you  were  about,"  said  the  officer  with 
suspicious  severity.  "  What  were  you  monkeying  with 
the  door  for?  You  aren't  the  owner  of  this  store?" 

"  No,  sir,"  said  young  Jenkins,  much  impressed. 
"No,  sir;  I- 

"  Nor  one  of  the  clerks  ?  " 


THE  FATAL  KEY  237 

"  No,  sir/'  replied  young  Jenkins  again,  "  I  have 
nothing  to  do  with  the  store.  I  found  the  key,  and 
thought  I'd  see  if  it  opened  this  door." 

"  What  did  you  want  to  see  if  it  would  open  the 
door  for  ?  Don't  you  think  it  is  a  little  late  for  a  joke 
of  that  sort  ?  " 

"  It  wasn't  a  joke,"  said  young  Jenkins,  beginning  to 
perspire  rather  copiously  ;  "  it  was  an  experiment.  I 
found  the  key  on  the  sidewalk,  and  wanted  to 
see " 

"  Yes  !  "  interrupted  the  blue  coat  with  a  fine  scorn  ; 
"  you  wanted  to  see  if  you  could  get  into  the  store  and 
rob  it  bare.  That  is  what  you  wanted  to  see.  You're 
a  box-worker,  if  ever  I  met  one,  and  if  I  hadn't  come 
along  you  would  have  had  this  bin  cracked  and  cleaned 
out  in  another  ten  minutes." 

"  I  told  you  I  found  the  key,"  protested  young 
Jenkins. 

"  That's  all  right  about  your  finding  the  key  !  "  said 
the  policeman  in  supreme  contempt.  "  You  found  the 
key  and  I  found  you,  and  we'll  both  keep  what  we've 
found.  That's  square,  ain't  it  ?  " 

And  in  spite  of  all  young  Jenkins  could  say  at  that 
late  hour  of  the  twenty-four,  the  faithful  officer 
dragged  him  to  the  station,  where  a  faithful  sergeant 
faithfully  registered  him,  and  a  faithful  turnkey  locked 
him  faithfully  up. 

As  young  Jenkins  sat  unhappy  in  his  cell,  while 
vermin  sparred  with  him  for  an  opening,  he  registered 
a  vow  that  never  again  would  he  find  anything. 

Young  Jenkins  wouldn't  pick  up  a  twenty-dollar 
gold  piece  were  he  to  meet  one  to-day  in  the  street. 


AN  OCEAN  ERROR 

"  No  ;  neither  my  name  nor  the  name  of  my  vessel 
can  I  give.  Our  navy  has  a  way  of  courtmartialing 
its  officers  who  wax  garrulous." 

It  was  just  as  the  Lieutenant  called  for  the  crime  de 
menthe,  that  may  properly  succeed  a  dinner  well  ordered 
and  well  stowed. 

"  But  you  are  welcome  to  the  raw  facts,"  continued 
the  Lieutenant.  "  It  was  during  those  anxious  days 
that  went  before  the  penning  in  of  Cervera  at  San 
tiago.  We  had  been  ordered  on  a  ticklish  service. 
Schley  was  over  south  of  the  island  on  a  prowl  for  the 
Spanish  fleet.  Sampson  was,  or  should  have  been,  off 
the  Windward  Passage  similarly  employed.  Cervera 
was  last  heard  of  two  weeks  before  at  Barbadoes.  Then 
he  disappeared  like  a  ghost ;  no  one  knew  where  his 
smoke  would  be  sighted  next.  The  one  sure  thing,  of 
which  all  were  aware,  was  that  with  Sampson  anywhere 
between  the  Mole  and  Cape  Mazie,  and  Schley  search 
ing  the  wide  seas  south  of  Cuba,  Cervera  might  easily 
with  little  luck  and  less  seamanship  dodge  either  and 
appear  off  Havana.  There  the  cardboard  fleet  left  on 
blockade  wouldn't,  with  such  heavy  odds,  last  as  long 
as  a  drink  of  whiskey. 

"  It  stood  thus  when  our  orders  came  to  my  Captain 
to  proceed  to  Bayou  Hondu,  some  seventy  miles  west 
of  Havana,  and  there  stand  off  and  on,  like  a  policeman 

238 


AN  OCEAN  ERROR  239 

walking  his  beat,  in  what  would  be  the  path  of  Cervera 
should  he  work  to  the  rear  of  Schley  and  to  the  north 
of  Cuba  by  the  way  of  St.  Antonio. 

"  Our  vessel  was  detailed  on  this  duty  because  of 
her  perfect  order  and  speed  of  seventeen  knots.  Our 
heavy  armament  was  eight  4-inch  broadside  guns, 
with  a  6-inch  rifle  forward  and  another  mounted  aft. 
Our  orders  were  :  If  Cervera  came  upon  us  to  fight ! — 
steam  as  slowly  as  might  be  for  Havana  and  fight  ! — 
and  to  keep  fighting  until  sunk  or  sure  that  the  block- 
aders  off  Havana  were  warned,  whether  by  our  signals 
or  our  racket,  of  Cervera's  coming. 

"  It  was  a  grinding  task,  this  lonely  patrol  off  Bayou 
Hondu.  The  rains  had  just  begun,  the  weather  was  a 
dripping  hash  of  fog  and  squall  and  rain.  If  Cervera 
didn't  come,  it  meant  discomfort  ;  and  if  he  did,  it 
meant  death.  Take  it  full  and  by,  the  outlook  was 
depressing. 

"  At  night  no  light  burned  and  the  ship  was  dark  as 
a  coffin.  This,  with  the  service,  contributed  to  keep 
us  all  in  a  mood  of  alert  nervousness.  Cervera's  ships 
would  also  be  dark.  We  didn't  care  to  be  crept  upon, 
and  get  our  first  notice  of  his  advent  from  the  broad 
side  that  sent  us  to  the  bottom  like  an  anvil. 

"  We  had  been  on  this  dreary  duty  some  ten  days. 
It  was  a  dark,  heavy  night.  I  myself  had  the  bridge, 
and  the  captain,  whose  anxiety  kept  him  up,  was  seated 
in  the  starboard  corner,  dozing.  His  sea  cloak  was 
thrown  over  his  head  to  keep  out  the  weather.  We 
were  working  to  the  eastward,  with  engines  at  quarter 
speed,  and  with  a  head  sea  running,  were  making 
perhaps  three  knots. 

"  The  ship's  bells  were  not  being  struck  for  the  hours, 


24o  SANDBURRS 

and  I  had  just  looked  at  my  watch  by  the  light  of  the 
binnacle.     It  was  half-past  two  in  the  morning. 

"  '  How's  your  head  ?  '  I  asked  of  the  man  at  the 
wheel,  as  I  put  up  my  timepiece. 

"  '  East  by  south,  half  south/  he  replied. 

"  This  was  taking  us  too  much  inshore.  '  Starboard 
for  a  point !  '  I  said. 

"  As  I  turned  from  the  wheel  I  saw  that  which  sent 
a  thrill  over  me  and  brought  me  up  all  standing.  It 
was  the  murky  loom  of  a  great  ship,  black  and  dim 
and  dark  and  silent  as  ourselves.  She  was  off  our  port 
quarter  and  not  five  hundred  yards  away.  It  gave  me 
a  start,  I  confess.  None  of  our  ships  should  be  that 
far  to  the  west  of  Havana.  It  was  a  sword  to  a  sheath 
knife  she  was  one  of  Cervera's  advance. 

"  Instantly  I  reached  for  the  electric  button  ;  and 
instantly  the  red  and  white  lights,  which  stood  for  the 
letter  of  that  night,  burned  in  our  semaphore.  The 
stranger  replied  with  a  red  over  two  white  lights.  It 
was  the  wrong  letter. 

"  With  my  first  motion,  the  captain  was  on  his  feet ; 
his  hand  gripped  the  lever  that  worked  the  engine  bells. 

"  '  Try  her  again  !  '  he  said. 

"  Again  I  flashed  the  proper  letter,  and  again  came 
a  queer  reply. 

"The  next  moment  the  captain  jammed  the  lever 
1  Full  steam,  ahead ! '  and  a  general  call  to  quarters 
went  singing  through  the  ship. 

" '  Starboard  !  '  shouted  the  captain  to  the  man  at 
the  wheel  ;  *  starboard  !  pull  her  over  !  ' 

"  There  was  a  vast  churning  from  the  propellers ; 
the  vessel  leaped  forward  like  a  horse ;  the  sailor 
climbed  the  wheel  like  a  squirrel.  We  surged  forward 


AN  OCEAN  ERROR  241 

with  a  broad  sheer  to  port.  The  next  instant  we  opened 
on  our  dark  visitor  with  every  gun  in  the  larboard  bat 
tery.  It  wasn't  ten  seconds  after  she  gave  us  the 
wrong  signal  when  she  got  our  broadside. 

"  The  result  was  amazing.  With  the  first  crash  of 
our  guns  the  stranger  went  from  utter  darkness  to  the 
extreme  of  light.  She  flashed  out  all  over  like  a  Fall 
River  steamer.  Knowing  who  we  were — for  they  bore 
orders  for  us — and  realizing  that  there  had  been  some 
mixing  of  signals,  the  officer  on  her  bridge  had  the  wit 
to  turn  on  every  light  in  his  ship.  It  was  an  inspira 
tion  and  saved  them  from  a  second  broadside. 

"  Who  was  she  ?  One  of  our  own  vessels.  Cervera 
was  locked  in  Santiago  and  she  had  come  up  to  tell  us 
the  news.  Her  officer  blundered  in  giving  out  the 
wrong  letter  for  the  night,  and  thereby  sowed  the  seed 
of  our  misunderstanding. 

"  No,  beyond  peppering  her  a  bit,  our  fire  did  no 
harm.  We  were  so  close  that  most  of  our  shot  went  over 
her.  Still,  I  don't  believe  that  vessel  will  ever  get  her 
signals  fouled  again.  And  it's  just  as  well  that  way. 
If  she  had  made  the  wrong  talk  to  some  one  of  our 
heavy-weights,  the  Oregon,  for  instance,  she  would 
have  gone  down  like  so  much  pig-iron." 


SKINNY  MIKE'S  UNWISDOM 
(ANNALS  OF  THE  BEND) 

CHUCKY  was  posed  in  his  usual  corner.  As  I  came 
in  he  nodded  sullenly  as  one  whom  the  Fates  ill-use. 
I  craved  of  Chucky  to  name  his  drink ;  it  was  the  surest 
way  to  thaw  him. 

"  Make  it  beer,"  said  Chucky. 

Now  beer  stood  as  a  symbol  of  gloom  with  Chucky, 
as  he  himself  had  told  me. 

"  It's  always  d'  way  wit'  me,"  said  Chucky  on  that 
far  occasion  when  he  explained  "Beer",  "when  I'm 
dead  sore  an'  been  gettin'  it  in  d'  neck,  to  order  beer. 
It's  d'  sorrowfulest  kind  of  booze,  beer  is ;  there's  a 
sob  in  every  bottle  of  it,  see  ! " 

Realising  Chucky's  low  spirits  by  virtue  of  present 
beer,  I  suavely  made  query  of  his  unknown  grief  and 
tendered  sympathy. 

"  I've  been  done  for  me  dough,"  replied  Chucky, 
softening  sulkily.  "  You  minds  d'  races  at  d'  Springs? 
That's  it  ;  I  gets  t'run  down  be  d'  horses.  I  get  d' 
gaff  for  fifty  plunks.  Now,  fifty  plunks  ain't  all  d' 
money  in  d'  woild  ;  but  it  was  wit'  me.  It  was  me 
fortune." 

Chucky  ruminated  bitterly. 

"  Oh,  I'm  a  good  t'ing!  "  he  ejaculated,  as  he  tilted 
242 


SKINNY  MIKE'S  UNWISDOM  243 

his  chair  against  the  wall  with  an  air  of  decision. 
"  I'll  play  d'  jumpers  agin,  nit ! 

"W'at's  d'  use?  I  can't  beat  nothin*.  Say!  I 
couldn't  beat  a  drum !  I'm  a  mut  to  ever  t'ink  of  it ! 
I  ought  to  give  meself  up  to  d'  p'lice  right  now  an'  ast 
'em  to  put  me  in  Bloomin'dale  or  some  other  bug 
house.  I'm  nutty,  that's  what  I  am  ;  an'  that's  for 
fair!  Now,  I'd  as  lief  tell  you.  It's  d'  boss  hard  luck 
story,  an'  that  ain't  no  vision  ! 

"  In  d'  foist  place,  I  was  a  rank  sucker  to  d'  point  of 
deemin'  meself  a  wise  guy  about  d'  horses.  An'  it  so 
follows,  bein'  stuck  on  meself  about  horses,  as  I  says, 
that  when  Skinny  Mike  blows  in  wit'  d'  idee  that  he 
can  pick  d'  winner  of  d'  big  event,  I  falls  to  d'  play,  an 
easy  mark. 

"  Mike  is  an  oldtime  tout ;  an'  wit'  me  feelin',  as  I 
says,  dead  fly,  it  ain't  a  minute  before  I'm  addin'  me 
ignorance  to  Mike's,  an'  we're  runnin'  over  d'  dopes  in 
d'  papers  seem'  what  d'  horses  has  done.  To  make  a 
long  story  short,  we  settles  it  for  a  finish  that  War 
Song's  out  to  win.  Which,  after  all,  ain't  such  a  sucker 
t'eory. 

"'It's  a  cinch!'  says  Skinny  Mike;  'War  Song's 
got  a  pushover.  Dey  can't  beat  him ;  never  in  a 
t'ousand  years  !  ' 

"  It  looks  a  sure  tip  to  me,  too ;  so  I  digs  for  me 
last  dollar  an'  hocks  me  ticker  besides,  an'  makes  up  d' 
fifty  plunks  I  mentions.  Mike  sticks  in  fifty  an'  then 
takes  d'  whole  roll  an'  screws  his  nut  for  d'  Springs  to 
get  it  up  on  War  Song.  Naw  ;  I  don't  go.  Mike's 
plenty  to  make  d'  play  ;  an*  besides  I  had  me  lamps  on 
a  sure  t'ing  for  a  tenner  over  on  d'  Bowery. 

"  Of  course,  while  Mike's  gone,  I  ain't  doin'  a  t'ing 
but  read  d'  poipers  all  to  pieces.  War  Song's  a  20~to« 


244  SANDBURRS 

I  shot ;  I  Stan's  to  make  a  killin' — Stan's  to  win  a 
t'ousand  plunks,  see ! 

"  An',  say  !  War  Song  win  !  Mebby  I  don't  give  d' 
yell  of  d'  year  when  I  sees  it  in  d'  print. 

"  '  Wat's  eatin'  youse,  Chucky  ?  '  says  me  Rag,  as  I 
cuts  loose  me  warwhoop. 

" '  O,  I  ain't  got  no  nut ! '  I  says,  givin'  meself  d' 
gran'  jolly.  '  No  !  not  at  all !  I  has  to  ast  some  mark 
to  tell  me  me  name,  I  don't  t'ink  !  I'm  cooney  enough 
to  get  onto  War  Song,  all  d'  same  !  Say  !  I'm  d'  soon 
est  galoot  that  ever  comes  down  d'  pike ! ' 

"  That's  d'  way  I  feels  an'  that's  d'  way  I  chins. 

"  At  last  I  cools  off  me  dampers  an'  sets  in  to  wait 
for  Mike.  Meanwhile  I  begins  to  figger  how  I'll  blow 
d'  stuff,  see!  an'  settle  what  I'll  buy.  It's  a  case  of 
money  to  boin  an'  I  was  gettin'  me  matches  ready 
before  even  Mike  shows  up. 

"  But  Mike  don't  come.  '  Wat  th'  'ell ! '  I  t'inks  ; 
'  Mike  ain't  crookt  it ;  he  ain't  skipped  wit'  d' 
bundle  ?  '  An'  say  !  you  should  a-seen  me  chew  d'  rag 
at  d'  idee. 

"  But  I'm  wrong  on  me  lead.  Mike  hadn't  welched, 
an*  he  hadn't  been  sandbagged.  He  comes  creepin' 
along  a  day  behint  d'  play,  an'  d'  secont  I  gets  me 
lamps  on  his  mug  I'm  dead  on  we  lose.  I  don't  have 
to  have  me  fortune  told  to  tumble  to  that.  Mike 
looks  like  five  cents  wort'  of  lard  in  a  paper  bag.  An* 
here's  d'  song  he  sings. 

"  Mike  says  he  goes  to  d'  Springs  all  right,  all  right, 
an'  is  organised  to  get  War  Song  for  d'  limit  d'  nex'  day. 
It's  that  night,  out  be  d'  stables,  when  he  chases  up  on 
a  horsescraper — a  sawed-off  coon,  he  is — an'  d'  horse- 
scraper  breaks  off  a  great  yarn  on  Mike. 


SKINNY  MIKE'S  UNWISDOM  245 

" '  I  ain't  no  tout,  an'  dis  ain't  no  tip,'  Mike  says  d' 
coon  says  ;  '  it's  a  rev'lation.  On  d'  dead  !  it's  a  proph 
ecy  !  It's  las'  night.  I'm  sleepin'  in  d'  stall  nex'  to 
a  little  horse  named  Dancer.  All  at  onct  I  wakes  up 
an'  listens.  It's  that  Dancer  horse  in  d'  nex'  stall  talk- 
in'  to  himself.  Over  an'  over  agin  he  says  :  "  I'm  goin' 
to  win  it !  I'm  goin'  to  win  it !  "  just  like  that.' 

"  Well,"  continued  Chucky,  "  you  know  Skinny  Mike. 
There's  a  ghost  goes  wit'  Mike,  an'  he's  that  sooper- 
stitious,  d'  nigger's  story  has  him  on  a  string  in  a  hully 
secont.  He  can't  shake  it  off.  Away  he  wanders  an' 
dumps  d'  entire  wad  on  Dancer,  an'  never  puts  a  splin 
ter  on  War  Song  at  all. 

"  W'at  do  you  t'ink  of  it  ?  On  d'  level  !  w'at  d' 
youse  really  t'ink  of  it  ?  That  Mike's  a  woild-beater  ; 
that's  right ;  a  woild-beater  an'  a  wonder  to  boot ! 
I'd  like  to  trade  him  for  a  yaller  dawg,  an'  do  d' 
dawg ! " 

"  Did  Dancer  win  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Did  Dancer  win  ?  "  repeated  Chucky  ;  and  his 
tones  breathed  guttural  scorn  ;  "  d'  old  skate  never 
even  finished.  Naw ;  he  gets  'round  on  d'  back  stretch, 
stops,  bites  d'  boy  off  his  back,  chases  over  be  d'  fence 
an'  goes  to  eatin'  grass ;  that's  what  Dancer  does. 
He's  a  dandy  race  horse,  or  I  don't  want  a  cent !  I'll 
bet  me  mudder-in-law  on  that  Dancer  some  day.  I 
tells  Mike  to  take  a  run  an'  jump  on  himself.  Naw," 
concluded  Chucky,  with  a  great  gulp,  "  Dancer  don't 
win ;  War  Song  win." 


MOLLIE  PRESCOTT 

(WOLFVILLE) 

"  THE  Cactus  "  was  the  name  bestowed  upon  her  in 
Wolfville.  Her  signature,  if  she  had  written  it,  would 
probably  have  been  Mollie  Prescott,  at  least  such  was 
the  declaration  of  Cherokee  Hall. 

"  I  sees  this  yere  lady  a  year  ago  in  Tombstone," 
asserted  that  veracious  chronicler,  "  where  she  cooks 
at  the  stage  station  ;  an'  she  gives  it  out  she's  Prescott 
—Mollie  Prescott — an'  most  likely  she  knows  her  name, 
an'  knows  it  a  year  ago." 

As  Cherokee  was  a  historian  of  known  firmness  of 
statement,  no  one  cared  to  challenge  either  his  facts  or 
his  conclusions.  The  true  name  of  "The  Cactus"  was 
accepted  by  the  Wolfville  public  as  Prescott. 

"  The  Cactus  "  was  personable,  and  her  advent  into 
Wolfville  society  caused  something  of  a  flutter.  Her 
mission  was  to  cook,  and  in  the  fulfilment  of  her  des 
tiny  she  presided  over  the  range  at  the  stage  station. 

Being  publicly  hailed  as  "  The  Cactus  "  seemed  in 
no  wise  to  depress  her.  It  was  even  possible  she  took 
a  secret  glow  over  an  epithet,  meant  by  the  critical 
taste  awarding  it,  to  illustrate  those  thorns  in  her 
nature  which  repelled  and  held  in  check  the  amorous 
male  of  Wolfville. 

Women  were  not  frequent  in  Wolfville,  and  on  her 
coming,  "  The  Cactus  "  had.  many  admirers.  Every 
246 


MOLLIE  PRESCOTT  247 

man  in  camp  loved  her  the  moment  she  stepped  from 
the  Tucson  stage  ;  that  is,  every  man  save  Cherokee 
Hall.  That  scientist,  given  wholly  to  faro  as  a  philos 
ophy,  had  no  time — in  a  day  before  he  met  Faro  Nell 
— for  so  dulcet  an  affair  as  love.  Also  Cherokee  had 
scruples  born  of  his  business. 

"  Life  behind  a  deal  box  is  a  mighty  sight  too 
fantastic,"  observed  the  thoughtful  Cherokee,  "  for  a 
fam'ly.  It  does  well  enough  for  single-footers,  which 
it  don't  make  much  difference  with  when  some  gent 
they've  mortified  an'  hurt,  pulls  his  six-shooter  an' 
sends  them  lopin'  home  to  heaven  all  spraddled  out. 
But  a  lady  ain't  got  no  business  with  a  sport  who  turns 
kyards  as  a  pursoot." 

As  time  unfurled,  the  train  of  lovers  to  sigh  on  the 
daily  trail  of  "  The  Cactus  "  dwindled.  There  were 
those  who  grew  dispirited. 

"  I'm  clean-strain  enough,"  said  Dan  Boggs,  in 
apologetic  description  of  his  failure  to  persevere,  "  but 
I  knows  when  I've  got  through.  I'll  play  a  game  to  a 
finish,  but  when  it's  down  to  the  turn  an'  my  last  chip's 
gone  over  to  the  dealer,  why  !  I  shoves  rny  chair  back 
an'  quits.  An'  it's  about  that  a-way  of  an'  concernin' 
my  yearnin's  for  this  yers  Cactus  girl.  I  jest  can't  get 
her  none,  an'  that  settles  it.  I  now  drops  out  an'  gives 
up  my  seat  complete." 

"  That's  whatever !  "  said  Texas  Thompson,  who 
was  an  interested  listener  to  the  defeated  Boggs,  "  an* 
you  can  gamble  I'm  with  you  on  them  views  !  Seein' 
as  how  my  wife  in  Laredo  gets  herse'f  that  divorce,  I 
turns  in  an'  loves  this  Cactus  person  myse'f  to  a  fright 
ful  degree.  Thar's  times  I  simply  goes  about  sobbin' 
them  sentiments  publicly.  But  yere  awhile  back  I 


248  SANDBURRS 

comes  wanderin'  'round  her  kitchen,  an'  bing !  arrives 
a  skillet  at  my  head.  That  lets  me  out !  You  bet !  I 
don't  pursoo  them  explorations  'round  her  no  more.  I 
has  exper'ence  with  one,  an'  I  don't  aim  to  get  any 
lariat  onto  a  second  female  who  is  that  callous  as  to  go 
a-chunkin'  of  kitchen  bric-a-brac  at  a  heart  which  is 
merely  pinin'  for  her  smiles." 

There  were  two  at  the  shrine  of  "  The  Cactus,"  who 
were  known  to  Wolfville,  respectively,  as  Cottonwood 
Wasson  and  Cape  Jinks.  These  were  distinguished 
for  the  ardour  wherewith  they  made  siege  to  the  affec 
tion  of  "  The  Cactus,"  and  the  energy  of  their  demands 
for  her  capitulation. 

That  virgin,  however,  paid  neither  heed  to  their 
court,  nor  took  an  interest  in  the  comment  of  onlook- 
ing  Wolfville.  She  pursued  her  path  in  life,  even  and 
unmoved.  She  set  her  tables,  washed  her  dishes,  and 
perfected  her  daily  beefsteaks  by  the  ingenious  process, 
popular  in  the  Southwest,  of  burning  them  on  the 
griddles  of  the  range,  and  all  with  a  composure  border 
ing  hard  on  the  stolid. 

"  All  I'm  afraid  of,"  said  Old  Man  Enright,  the  head 
of  the  local  vigilance  committee,  "  is  that  some  of  these 
yere  young  bucks'll  take  to  pawin'  'round  for  trouble 
with  each  other.  As  the  upshot  of  scch  doin's  would 
most  likely  be  the  stringin'  of  the  survivors  by  the 
committee,  nuptials,  which  now  looks  plenty  feasible, 
would  be  plumb  busted  an'  alienated,  an'  the  camp  get 
a  setback  it  would  be  hard  to  rally  from.  I  wishes  this 
maiden  would  tip  her  hand  to  some  discreet  gent,  so  a 
play  could  be  made  in  advance  to  get  the  wrong  parties 
over  to  Tucson  or  some'ers.  Whatever  do  you  think 
yourse'f,  Cherokee  ?  " 


MOLLIE  PRESCOTT  249 

"  It's  a  delicate  deal,"  replied  that  philosopher,  "  to 
go  tamperin'  'round  a  lady  for  the  secret  of  her  soul. 
But  I  shorely  deems  the  occasion  a  crisis,  an'  public 
interest  demands  somethin'  is  done.  I  wish  Doc  Peets 
was  yere  ;  he  knows  these  skirted  cattle  like  I  does  an 
ace.  But  Peets  won't  be  back  for  a  month  ;  pendin* 
of  which,  onless  we-alls  interferes,  it's  my  jedgment 
some  of  this  yere  amorousness'll  come  off  in  the 
smoke." 

"  Thar  ought  to  be  statoots,"  observed  Texas 
Thompson,  with  a  fine  air  of  wisdom,  "  ag'in  love- 
makin'  in  the  far  West.  The  East  should  be  kept  for 
sech  purposes  speshul ;  same  as  reservations  for  Injuns. 
The  Western  climate's  too  exyooberant  for  love." 

"  S'pose  me  an'  you  an'  Thompson  yere  goes  to  this 
young  person,  an'  all  p'lite  an'  congenial  like,  we  ups 
an'  asks  her  intentions  ? "  remarked  Enright.  This 
was  offered  to  Cherokee. 

"  Excuse  me,  pards  !  "  said  Texas  Thompson  with 
eagerness,  "  but  I  don't  reckon  I  wants  kyards  in  this 
at  all.  'The  Cactus'  is  a  mighty  fine  young  bein',  but 
you-alls  recalls  as  how  I've  been  ha'ntin'  'round  her 
somewhat  in  the  past  myse'f.  For  which  reason,  with 
others,  she  might  take  my  comin'  on  sech  errants  de 
risive,  an'  bust  me  over  the  forehead  with  a  dipper,  or 
some  sech  objectionable  play.  I  allows  I  better  keep 
out  of  this  embroglio  a  whole  lot.  I  ain't  aiming  to 
shirk  nothin',  but  it'll  be  a  heap  more  shore  to  win." 

"  Thompson  ain't  onlikely  to  be  plenty  right  about 
this,"  said  Cherokee,  "  an'  I  reckons,  Enright,  we-alls 
better  take  this  trick  ourse'ves." 

The  mission  was  not  a  success.  When  the  worthy 
pair  of  peace-preservers  appeared  in  the  presence  of 


250  SANDBURRS 

"  The  Cactus,"  and  made  the  inquiries  noted,  the  scorn 
of  that  damsel  was  excited  beyond  the  power  of  words 
to  describe. 

"  What  be  you-alls  doin'  in  my  kitchen  ?  "  she  cried, 
her  face  a-flush  with  rage  and  noonday  cookery. 
"  Who  sends  you-alls  curvin'  over  to  me,  a-makin'  of 
them  insultin'  bluffs  ?  I  demands  to  know  !  " 

"  An'  yere,"  said  Cherokee  Hall,  relating  the  exploit 
in  the  Red  Light  immediately  thereafter,  "  she  stamps 
her  foot  like  a  buck  antelope,  an'  lets  fly  a  stovelifter 
at  us ;  an'  all  with  a  proud,  high  air,  which  reminds  me 
a  mighty  sight  of  a  goddess." 

At  the  time,  it  would  seem,  the  duo  attempted  to 
show  popular  cause  for  their  presence,  and  made  an 
effort  to  point  out  to  "  The  Cactus  "  the  crying  public 
need  of  some  decision  on  her  part. 

"  You-all  don't  want  the  young  male  persons  of  this 
village  to  take  to  shootin'  of  each  other  all  up  none,  do 
you?"  asked  Enright. 

"  I  wants  you  two  beasts  to  get  outen  my  kitchen  !  " 
replied  "  The  Cactus  "  vigorously ;  "an'  I  wants  you 
to  move  some  hurried,  too.  Don't  never  let  me  find 
your  moccasin  tracks  'round  yere  no  more,  or  I'll  turn 
in  an'  mark  you  up." 

"  Yere,  you  ! "  she  continued  as  the  ambassadors 
were  about  to  leave,  something  cast  down  by  the  con 
ference;  "you-alls  can  tell  the  folks  of  this  town,  that 
if  they're  idiots  enough  to  go  makin'  a  gun  play 
over  me,  to  make  it.  They  has  shore  pestered  me 
enough !  " 

"  Which  I  don't  wonder  none  at  Thompson  bein'  re 
luctant  an'  doobious  about  seem'  this  Cactus  lady,'* 
said  Enright,  as  the  two  walked  away. 


I   WANTS    YOU    TO    MOVE    SOME    HURRIED,    TOO  !" — Page 


MOLLIE  PRESCOTT  251 

"  She's  some  fiery,  an'  that's  a  fact ! "  observed 
Cherokee  in  assent. 

Th.e  result  of  the  talk  with  "  The  Cactus"  found  its 
way  about  Wolfville,  and  in  less  than  an  hour  bore  its 
hateful  fruit.  The  peaceful  quiet  of  the  Red  Light, 
which,  as  a  rule,  was  wounded  by  no  harsher  notes 
than  the  flutter  of  a  stack  of  chips,  was  rudely  broken. 

"  Gents  who  ain't  interested,  better  hunt  a  lower 
limb  ! " 

It  was  the  voice  of  Cottonwood  Wasson.  The 
trained  instincts  of  Wolfville  at  once  grasped  the 
trouble,  and  proceeded  to  hide  its  many  heads  behind 
barrels,  tables,  counters,  and  anything  which  promised 
refuge  from  the  bullets. 

All  but  one;  Cape  Jinks.  He  knew  it  meant  him 
the  moment  Cottonwood  Wasson  uttered  the  first  syl 
lable,  and  his  pistol  came  bluntly  to  the  fore  without 
a  word.  His  rival's  was  already  there,  and  the  shoot 
ing  set  in  like  a  hailstorm.  As  a  result,  Cottonwood 
Wasson  received  an  injury  that  crippled  his  arm  for 
days,  while  Cape  Jinks  was  picked  up  with  a  hole  in 
his  side,  which  even  the  sanguine  sentiment  of  Wolf 
ville,  inclined  to  a  hardy  optimism  at  all  times,  called 
dangerous. 

"  Well ! "  said  Old  Man  Enright,  drawing  a  deep, 
troubled  breath,  after  the  duellists  were  cared  for  at 
the  O.  K.  House,  "  yere  we  be  ag'in  an'  nothin'  settled  ! 
Thar's  all  this  shootin',  an'  this  blood-lettin',  an'  the 
camp  gets  all  torn  up  ;  an'  thar's  as  many  of  these  people 
now  as  thar  is  before,  an'  most  likely  the  whole  deal  to 
go  over  ag'in." 

"  I  shore  'bominates  things  a-splittin*  even  that 
a-way  ! "  said  Cherokee. 


252  SANDBURRS 

The  next  day  a  new  face  was  given  the  affair  when 
"  The  Cactus  "  was  observed,  clothed  in  her  best  frock 
and  with  two  violent  red  roses  in  her  straw  hat,  to  take 
the  stage  for  Tucson.  The  stage  company  reported,  in 
deference  to  the  excited  state  of  the  Wolfville  mind, 
that  "  The  Cactus  "  would  return  in  a  week. 

"  Coin'  for  her  weddin'  trowsoo,  most  likely,"  said 
Dan  Boggs,  as  he  gazed  after  the  stage. 

"  Let's  drink  to  the  hope  she  wins  out  a  red  dress !  " 
remarked  Texas  Thompson.  "  Set  up  the  bottles,  bar- 
keep,  an*  don't  let  no  gent  pass  up  the  play.  Which 
red  is  my  fav'rite  colour !  " 

No  one  seemed  to  know  the  intentions  of  "  The 
Cactus."  The  shooting  would  appear  to  have  in  no 
wise  disturbed  her.  That  may  have  been  her  obdurate 
heart,  or  it  may  have  come  from  a  familiarity  with  the 
evanescent  tenure  of  human  life,  born  of  her  years  on 
the  border.  Be  that  as  one  will,  she  expressed  not  the 
least  concern  touching  her  brace  of  wounded  lovers, 
and  took  the  stage  without  saying  good-bye  to  any 
one. 

"  An*  some  fools  say  women  is  talkers !  "  remarked 
Jack  Moore,  the  Marshal,  in  high  disgust. 

Three  days  later  Old  Monte,  the  stage  driver,  came 
in  with  thrilling  news.  "  The  Cactus  "  had  wedded  a 
man  in  Tucson,  and  would  bring  him  to  Wolfville  in  a 
week. 

"  When  I  first  hears  of  it,"  went  on  Old  Monte  with 
a  groan,  "  an'  when  I  thinks  of  them  two  pore  boys 
a-layin'  in  Wolfville,  an'  their  claims  bein'  raffled  off  in 
that  heartless  way,  I  shore  thinks  I'll  take  my  Win 
chester  an'  stop  them  marriage  rites  if  I  has  to  crease 
the  preacher.  But,  pards,  the  Tucson  marshal  wouldn't 


MOLLIE  PRESCOTT  253 

have  it.  He  stan's  me  off.  So  she  nails  him ;  an'  the 
barkeep  at  the  Oriental  Saloon  tells  me  over  thar,  how 
she's  been  organism'  to  wed  this  yere  prairie  dog  be 
fore  she  ever  hops  into  Wolfville  at  all.  I  sees  him 
afterwards ;  an',  gents  !  for  looks,  he  don't  break  even 
with  horned  toads  !  " 

"  Thar  you  be  !  "  said  Enright,  making  a  deprecatory 
gesture,  "  another  case  of  woman,  lovely  woman ! 
However,  even  if  this  Cactus  lady  has  done  rung  in  a 
cold  hand  onto  us,  we  must  still  prance  'round  an* 
show  her  a  good  time  when  she  trails  in  with  her  prey. 
Where  the  honour  of  the  camp  is  concerned,  we  whoops 
it  up !  Of  course  the  Cactus  don't  please  us  none 
with  this  deal ;  but  most  likely  she  pleases  herse'f, 
which,  after  all,  is  the  next  best  thing.  Gents,"  con 
cluded  Enright,  after  a  pause,  "  the  return  of  the  new 
couple  will  be  the  signal  of  a  general  upheaval  in  their 
honour.  It's  to  be  hoped  our  young  friends,  Cotton- 
wood  an'  Jinks,  will  by  then  be  healthful  enough  to 
participate  tharin.  Barkeep  !  the  liquor,  please  !  Boys, 
the  limit's  off ;  wherefore  drink  hearty  !  " 

"  Which  I  has  preemonitions  from  the  first,  this  yere 
Cactus  female  is  a  brace  game,"  remarked  Texas 
Thompson,  as  he  filled  his  glass  ;  "  that's  whatever  !  " 

"Oh!  I  don't  know!"  replied  Cherokee  Hall 
thoughtfully.  "  She  has  her  right  to  place  her  bets  to 
please  herse'f,  an'  win  or  lose,  this  camp  should  be 
proud  to  turn  for  her.  Wolfville  can't  always  make  a 
killin' — can't  always  be  on  velvet  ;  but  as  long  as  the 
Cactus  an*  her  victim  pitches  camp  yere,  Wolfville 
can  call  herse'f  ahead  on  the  deal.  I  sees  no  room  for 
cavil,  an*  I  yereby  freights  my  glass  to  the  Cactus  an* 
the  shorthorn  she's  tied  down.*' 


ANNA    MARIE 

ANNA  MARIE  was  to  be  a  new  woman.  She  had  de 
cided  that  for  herself.  In  the  carrying  out  of  her  des 
tinies,  Anna  Marie  had  cut  her  hair  short.  She  also 
made  a  specialty  of  very  mannish  costumes,  and,  out 
wardly,  at  least,  became  as  virile  as  a  woman  might  be 
with  a  make-up  the  basis  of  which  was  bound  to  be  a 
skirt. 

Anna  Marie  was  motherless,  and  at  the  age  of  nine 
teen,  when  she  determined  to  become  a  new  woman, 
had  no  advice  save  her  father's  to  depend  on.  When  she 
discussed  an  adoption  of  broader  and  more  masculine 
methods  on  her  girlish  part  with  her  father,  the  old 
gentleman  looked  puzzled,  and  said  : 

"  Well,  my  dear  !  I  have  great  confidence  in  your 
judgment.  There  is  nothing  like  experience,  so  go 
ahead.  You  will  find,  however,  before  you  have  gone 
far,  that  you  labour  under  many  structural  defects. 
The  great  Architect  didn't  lay  you  out  for  a  man, 
Anna  Marie ;  you  were  not  intended  for  such  a  fate." 

However,  Anna  Marie  kept  on.  She  was  looking 
for  a  fuller  liberty  and  a  wider  field.  She  was  too 
delicately  and  too  accurately  determined  in  her  tastes 
to  be  a  fool  to  cigarettes,  or  swept  down  in  a  current 
of  profanity.  Bad  language  she  would  leave  to  the 
real  man ;  in  her  career  as  a  new  woman  nothing  so 
vigorous  was  needed. 
254 


ANNA  MARIE  255 

But  men  did  other  things,  had  other  freedoms ;  and 
from  that  long  male  list  of  liberties  Anna  Marie  pro 
ceeded  to  pick  out  a  line  of  freedom  for  herself.  She 
had  had  enough  of  that  pent-up  Utica  which  confines 
the  conventional  woman.  What  she  wanted  was  more 
room :  that  is,  of  proper,  decorous  sort. 

Of  course,  as  Anna  Marie  proceeded  up  the  long 
trail  of  masculinity,  it  was  noted  by  critics  that  she 
still  continued  essentially  feminine  as  to  many  common 
male  accomplishments.  She  could  not  throw  a  stone, 
except  in  that  vague,  pawey,  overhand  fashion  usual 
with  ladies,  and  which  confers  on  the  missile  neither 
direction  nor  force.  And  when  Anna  Marie  essayed  to 
run,  she  still  put  everybody  in  mind  of  a  cow  trying  to 
keep  an  engagement. 

While  others  noted  those  solemn  truths,  Anna 
Marie  did  not.  She  thought  she  was  making  strenu 
ous  progress,  and  combed  her  short  hair  as  a  man 
combs  his,  and  walked  with  long,  decided  stride. 

Anna  Marie  rode  a  bike,  and  decided  to  don  bloom 
ers  for  this  ceremony.  She  came  to  the  bloomer  de 
cision  hesitatingly,  but  made  up  her  mind  at  last. 
Secretly  she  regarded  bloomers  as  the  Rubicon.  It 
was  bloomers  which  flowed  between  herself  and  the 
new  woman  in  full  standing ;  and  once  Anna  Marie 
had  broken  on  the  world  in  this  ill-considered  costume, 
she  would  feel  herself  graduated,  and  no  longer  at 
school  to  Destiny.  Therefore,  there  dawned  a  day 
when  Anna  Marie  came  down  the  avenue  on  her  bike, 
be-bloomered  to  heart's  content.  She  had  made  the 
plunge  ;  the  Rubicon  was  crossed,  and  Anna  Marie  felt 
now  like  a  female  Caesar  who  must  conquer  or  die. 

On  the  bike-bloomer  occasion  Anna  Marie  was  weak 


256  SANDBURRS 

enough  to  hurry.  She  put  her  unbridled  steed  to  full 
est  speed,  and  flashed  by  the  onlookers  like  unto  some 
sweet  meteor.  She  blamed  herself  afterward  for  being 
such  a  craven,  but  concluded  that  by  sticking  to  her 
bloomers  she  would  acquire  heart  and  slacken  speed  in 
time. 

The  worst  feature  about  the  bloomer  business  was 
that  Anna  Marie  wotted  not  how  hideous  she 
looked.  She  did  not  know  that  a  printer  on  his  way 
to  his  case,  caught  a  fleeting  impression  of  her  as  she 
sped  by,  and  that  he  at  once  "put  on  a  sub.,"  took  a 
night  off,  and  became  dejectedly  yet  fully  drunk.  Nor 
did  she  wist  that  a  nervous  person  was  so  affected  by 
the  awful  tout  ensemble  of  herself,  bike,  and  bloomers 
that  he  repaired  to  Bloomingdale  and  sternly  demanded 
admission  as  a  right. 

No  ;  Anna  Marie  rode  all  too  frightened  and  too 
fast  to  reap  these  truths.  Still,  she  might  not  have 
altered  her  system  if  she  had  known.  For  Anna  Marie 
was  resolute.  Bent  as  Anna  Marie  was  on  her  com 
pletion  as  a  new  woman,  she  resolved  to  inhabit  bloom 
ers  and  ride  her  two-wheeled  vehicle  even  unto  a  grey 
old  age.  How  else,  indeed,  could  she  be  a  new 
woman  ?  A  girl  friend  who  had  stood  appalled 
at  the  vigour  of  Anna  Marie  asked  her  as  to  the 

o 

bloomers. 

"  They  are  good  things,"  observed  Anna  Marie. 
"  There's  a  comfort  in  bloomers  which  lurks  not  in 
the  tangled  wilderness  of  the  ordinary  skirt.  Their 
fault  is  that  in  donning  bloomers  one  does  not  put 
them  on  over  one's  head.  It  is  a  great  defect.  As  it  is, 
one  never  feels  more  than  half-dressed."  Anna  Marie 
declared  that  the  great  want  of  the  day  was  bloomers, 


ANNA  MARIE  257 

through  which  one  thrust  one's  arms  and  head  in 
the  process  of  harnessing. 

Anna  Made  had  a  brother  George.  This  youth  was 
twelve  years  of  age.  George  was  essentially  masculine. 
Anna  Marie  could  see  that,  and  it  came  to  her  as  a 
thought  that  in  the  course  of  becoming  a  new  wo 
man  of  fullest  feather,  a  good,  ripe  method  would  be 
to  study  George.  Should  she  do  as  George  did,  young 
though  he  was,  she  was  sure  to  succeed.  George 
would  do  from  instinct  what  she  must  do  by  imitation. 
Anna  Marie  felt  these  things  without  really  and  defi 
nitely  thinking  them.  It  so  fell  out  that,  without  tell 
ing  George,  Anna  Marie  began  to  take  him  as  guide, 
philosopher  and  friend.  And  all  without  really  know 
ing  it  herself. 

Unconsciously,  George  loved  her  all  the  better  be 
cause  of  this,  and,  moved  by  a  warm,  ingenuous  lack 
of  years,  began  to  take  Anna  Marie  into  his  confidence 
like  true  comrade.  Anna  Marie  encouraged  his  frank 
ness. 

"  George,"  said  Anna  Marie,  one  day,  "  whenever 
you  are  about  to  do  anything  peculiarly  boyish  and  in 
teresting,  always  tell  me,  so  that  I  may  join  you  in 
your  sport." 

George  said  he  would,  and  he  did. 

It  so  befell  one  day,  as  the  fruit  of  this  comradeship, 
that  George  changed  the  channel  of  Anna  Marie's 
manly  determination,  and  caused  her  to  abandon  the 
role  of  a  new  woman.  This  is  the  story,  and  it  all 
taught  Anna  Marie,  with  the  rush  of  a  landslide,  that, 
however  industriously  she  might  prune  and  train  her 
habits  to  the  trellis  of  the  male,  she  would  never  be 
able  to  bring  her  nature  to  that  state  of  icy,  egotistical, 


258  SANDBURRS 

cold-blooded  hardihood  absolutely  necessary  to  the 
perfect  man,  and  therefore  indispensable  to  the  new 
woman.  But  the  story. 

"Anna  Marie,"  said  George,  coming  on  her  one  day, 
"Anna  Marie,  me  and  Billy  Sweet  wants  you." 

"What  is  it,  George?"  asked  Anna  Marie. 

"  We're  going  to  hang  a  dog  out  back  of  the  barn," 
explained  George.  "  Me  and  Billy  are  to  be  the  jury, 
and  we  want  you  for  judge.  Hurry  up,  now  !  that's  a 
good  fellow  !  " 

Anna  Marie  felt  a  shock  at  thought  of  taking  the 
life  of  anything.  Her  first  feeling  was  that  George 
was  a  brute — a  mere  animal  himself.  But  Anna  Marie 
quickly  reflected,  that,  whatever  George  might  be,  at 
least  his  hardened  sex  was  the  promontory  the  new 
woman  must  steer  by.  She  put  down  the  garment 
she  was  sewing  and  sought  the  scene  of  canine  trial. 

"  You  see,  Anna  Marie  !  "  explained  George,  point 
ing  to  a  saffron-coloured  dog,  which  stood  with  dol 
orous  tail  between  his  legs  and  looked  veiy  repentant, 
"  he  murdered  a  kitten,  and  we  are  going  to  try  to  con 
vict  and  hang  him.  You  sit  down  there  by  the  fence, 
and  the  trial  won't  take  a  minute.  Billy  and  me  have 
got  our  minds  made  up,  and  we  won't  take  no  time  to 
decide.  There's  the  rope,  and  we're  going  to  hang  him 
to  the  limb  of  that  maple." 

Anna  Marie  felt  worried.  Still,  she  allowed  herself 
to  be  installed,  and  the  trial  proceeded.  It  was  very 
brief.  George  produced  the  defunct  kitten, — which 
looked  indeed,  very  dead, — with  the  remark, 

"  Say,  you  yellow  dog  !  you're  charged  with  murderr 
ing  this  cat  ;  have  you  got  anything  to  say  against  being 
hung  ?  " 


ANNA  MARIE  259 

The  yellow  cur  feebly  wagged  his  disreputable  tail, 
and  looked  at  Anna  Marie  in  a  fashion  of  sneaking 
appeal.  He  said  as  plain  as  words:  "  Save  me  !  " 

"  I  wouldn't  hang  the  poor  thing,  George,"  said 
Anna  Marie,  and  she  began  to  pat  the  felon  yellow  cur. 

"  You're  a  great  judge  !  "  remonstrated  George,  in 
dignantly.  "  It  ain't  for  you  to  decide  ;  it's  for  me 
and  Billy.  We  are  the  jury,  and  in  favour  of  hanging 
him,  ain't  we,  Billy?" 

Billy  nodded  emphatically. 

"  But,  George,"  expostulated  Anna  Marie,  "  it  is  so 
cruel !  so  brutal !  " 

"  Brutal !  "  scoffed  George.  "  Don't  they  hang  folks 
for  murder  every  day  ?  You  wear  bloomers  and  talk 
of  being  a  new  woman  and  having  the  rights  of  a  man ! 
I  have  heard  you  with  that  Sanford  girl !  And  now 
you  come  out  here  and  try  to  talk  off  a  yellow  dog  who 
is  guilty  of  murder,  and  admits  it  by  his  silence  !  You 
would  act  nice  if  it  was  a  real  man  and  a  real  murder 
case!  Come  on,  Billy  ;  let's  string  him  up." 

Here  George  seized  on  the  cowering  victim  of  lynch 
law,  and  started  for  the  maple,  where  the  rope  already 
dangled  for  its  prey.  Anna  Marie  became  utterly 
feminine  at  this,  and  burst  into  tears.  Her  nineteen 
years  and  her  progress  toward  a  new  womanhood  did 
not  save  her.  In  her  distress  she  turned  to  the  other 
member  of  the  jury. 

Billy  Sweet,  at  the  age  of  thirteen,  was  an  ardent  ad 
mirer  of  George's  sister,  loved  her  dearly,  if  secretly, 
and  meant  to  marry  her  in  ten  or  fifteen  years,  when 
he  grew  up.  At  present  he  played  with  George  and 
kept  a  loving  eye  on  his  future  bride.  Anna  Marie 
knew  of  Billy's  partiality,  sb  she  cunningly  turned  on 


260  SANDBURRS 

this  admirer,  like  a  true  daughter  of  the  olden  wo 
man. 

"  You  think  as  I  do,  don't  you,  Billy?  "  And  Anna 
Marie's  tone  had  a  caress  in  it  which  made  Billy's  ears 
a  happy  red. 

"  Yes,  ma'am!"  said  Billy. 

George  was  disgusted. 

"  You  are  the  kind  of  a  juryman/'  said  George,  full 
of  contempt,  "that  makes  me  tired.  There,  Anna 
Marie,  take  your  yellow  dog,  and  don't  try  to  play  with 
me  no  more.  You  are  too  soft !  " 

Anna  Marie  felt  that  some  vast  deposit  of  good,  hard 
sense  lay  hidden  in  George's  last  remark.  On  her  way 
to  the  house  she  did  a  good  deal  of  thinking,  as  girls 
whose  mothers  are  dead  do  now  and  then.  The  de 
velopment  of  her  cogitations  was  told  in  a  remark  to 
her  girl  friend : 

"  It's  so  tiresome,  this  being  a  new  woman  !  I  am 
going  to  give  it  up.  I  am  afraid,  as  father  says,  I  am 
'  not  built  right.'  " 

And  thus  it  ended.  Marie  is  exceedingly  the  olden 
woman  now.  She  has  beaten  her  sword  into  a  prun- 
ing-hook,  her  bike  into  a  spinning-wheel !  She  no 
longer  walks  with  long,  decided  stride.  She  is  a  woman 
in  all  things,  and  will  scream  and  chase  a  street  car  as 
if  it  were  the  last  going  that  way  for  a  week,  like  the 
tenderest  and  frailest  of  her  kind.  She  has  retracted  as 
to  bloomers.  Anna  Marie  has  returned  to  the  agency, 
and  forever  abandoned  the  warpath  of  a  new  and  manly 
womanhood. 


THE  PETERSENS 

(ANNALS  OF  THE  BEND) 

WHEN  Chucky  came  into  the  little  doggery  where 
we  were  wont  to  converse,  there  arrived  with  him  an 
emphatic  odour  of  kerosene.  Also  Chucky's  face  was 
worn  and  sad,  and  his  hands  were  muffled  with  many 
bandages.  To  add  to  it  all  Chucky  was  not  in  spirits. 

"  What's  the  trouble  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  We've  been  havin'd'  run  in'  of  our  lives,"  replied 
Chucky,  as  he  called  to  the  barkeeper  for  his  usual 
bracer,  "  an'  our  tenement  is  just  standin'  on  its  nut 
right  now,  an'  that's  for  straight !  " 

"  Tell  me  about  it,"  I  urged. 

"  D'  racket  this  time  over  to  d'  joint,"  said  Chucky, 
"  is  about  a  Swede  skirt  named  Petersen  who  croaks 
herself  be  d'  gas  play  last  night.  D'  place  is  full  of 
cops  an'  hobos  an'  all  sorts  of  blokes,  pipin'  off  d'  play, 
while  a  cor'ner  mug  is  holdin'  an  inkwest  over  d'  stiff, 
see !  What  you  smells  is  d'  coal  oil  on  me  mits.  I 
soaks  me  hooks  in  it  to  take  d'  boin  away.  Me  Rag 
gives  me  d'  tip  ;  an*  say  !  it's  a  winner  at  that.  D'  boins 
ain't  half  so  bad  as  dey  was." 

"  But  I  don't  understand,"  I  replied.  "  How  did 
you  come  to  burn  your  hands  ?  If  the  gas  was  burning, 
I  don't  see  how  the  woman  could  have  committed 
suicide." 

261 


SANDBURRS 

"Youse  is  gettin'  away  on  d'  wrong  hoof,"  said 
Chucky.  "  I  don't  boin  me  fins  over  d'  Petersen  moll 
croakin'  herself.  I  cremates  'em  puttin'  out  d'  flames 
when  d'  Petersen  kid  takes  fire  d'  day  before.  This 
inkwest  which  d'  cor'oner  guy  is  holdin'  to-day,  is  d' 
secont  one.  He  holds  d'  foist  yesterday  over  d'  kid. 

"  On  d'  level !  I  don't  catch  on  to  d'  need  of  inkwests 
anyhow.  If  a  mark's  dead,  he's  dead.  It  don't  need 
no  sawbones  an'  a  mob  of  snoozers  to  be  'panelled  for 
a  jury,  see  !  to  put  youse  on.  It  looks  to  me  like  a 
dead  case  of  shakin'  down  d'  public  for  d'  fees ;  these 
inkwests  do.  Cor'ners,  I  s'spose,  has  to  have  some 
excuse  for  livin',  so  when  some  poor  duck  croaks,  dey 
comes  chasin'  'round  wit'  a  inkwest  to  see  if  he's  surely 
done  up,  an'  to  put  a  bit  of  dough  in  their  kecks. 
Well !  I  riggers  it's  law  all  right,  all  right,  an'  mebby 
it's  d'  proper  caper.  Anyhow,  I  passes  it  up. 

"  What  about  this  Petersen  push  ?  Well,  if  ever  a 
household  strikes  it  hard,  I'm  here  to  say  it's  d'  Peter- 
sens.  When  it  comes  to  d'  boss  hard  luck  story,  I'll 
place  me  bets  wit'  that  outfit  every  time. 

"  It's  two  spaces  back  when  this  Petersen  gang  comes 
ashore  at  Ellis  Island.  There's  t'ree  of  'em  ;  husband, 
wife,  an'  kid,  see !  Dey  comes  in  as  steerage,  an' 
naturally,  d'  Ellis  Island  gezebos  collars  'em  an'  t'rows 
'em  into  hock  d'  moment  dey  hits  d'  pier.  Nit ;  dey 
ain't  arrested.  But  youse  is  on,  how  dey  puts  d'  clamps 
to  emigrants.  Dey  *  detains'  'em,  as  it's  called. 

"  Every  mug  who  comes  steerage  has  to  spring  his 
plant  when  he  lands,  an'  if  he  ain't  as  strong  as  $30, 
dey — d'  offishuls — don't  do  a  t'ing  but  chase  him  back 
on  d'  nex'  boat.  He's  a  pauper,  see  !  an'  he  gets  d' 
razzle  dazzle  an'  d'  gran'  rinky  dink.  Back  he  goes 


THE  FETERSENS  263 

where  he  hails  from,  like  a  bundle  of  old  clothes. 
Paupers  is  barred  at  Ellis  Island  ;  dey  don't  go  wit* 
these  United  States,  not  on  your  overshoes ! 

"  So  d'  Petersens  is  stood  up,  like  I  tells  youse,  at 
Ellis  Island  to  see  be  dey  tramps.  It  toins  out,  nit. 
Dey  ain't  paupers.  Petersen  has  more'n  enough 
money  to  get  be  d'  gate,  see  !  Petersen  has  a  hundred 
an'  fifty  plunks,  an'  bein'  there's  only  t'ree,  it's  plenty 
to  go  'round  an'  show  $30  for  each. 

"  Still  them  Ellis  Island  snoozers  detains  d'  Peter- 
sens  a  week  just  d'  same.  D'  place  where  dey  stays 
is  worse'n  any  holdover  or  station  house  I'm  ever  in; 
an',  bein'  d'  weather's  winter,  an'  this  *  detention  '  pen  is 
wet  an'  cold,  Petersen  himself  cops  off  d'  pneumonia  an* 
out  goes  his  light  before  ever  he  leaves  Ellis  Island  at 
all.  Dey  plants  him  in  d'  graveyard  dey  has  for  emi 
grants,  an'  d'  wife  an'  kid  comes  over  to  d'  city  alone. 

"  That's  d'  foist  I  knows  of  d'  Petersens.  D'  mother 
an'  kid  takes  a  back-room  in  our  tenement ;  an'  after  dey 
gets  'quainted,  she  tells  me  Rag  about  her  man  dyin'. 
She  ain't  so  old,  this  Petersen  woman,  an'  only  she's 
all  broke  up  about  her  man  croakin',  she  ain't  a  bad 
looker,  see  !  wit'  blue  eyes  an'  a  mop  of  gold  hair.  D' 
kid's  name  is  Hilda,  an,'  except  she's  only  seven  years 
an'  no  bigger'n  a  drink  of  whiskey,  she's  a  ringer  for 
her  mother. 

"  Well  !  like  I  says,  d'  Petersens— what's  left  of  'em 
after  d'  man  quits  livin' — organised  in  d'  back  room  on 
our  floor.  An'  because  folks  who  wants  to  chew  must 
woik,  d'  Petersen  woman  gets  a  curve  on  an'  goes  to 
doin'  stunts  wit*  a  tub.  She  chases  'round  doin* 
washin',  see  ! 

"  It's  when  d'  old  goil  is  away  slingin'  suds  that  I 


264  SANDBURRS 

gets  nex'  wit'  d'  kid.  She's  dropped  herragbaby  down 
be  a  gratin'  one  day  an'  her  heart  is  broke.  She  t'inks 
it's  a  cinch  case  of  all  over  wit'  d'  poor  ragbaby,  an' 
she's  cryin'  to  beat  d'  band. 

"  But  she  gets  it  ag'in.  Me  an'  a  big  fat  cop  who 
comes  waddlin'  along,  tears  up  d'  gratin'  an'  fishes  out 
Hilda's  doll,  an'  after  that  me  an'  her  gets  to  be  dead 
chummy  ;  what  youse  might  call  *  pals.' 

"  Hilda's  shy  at  foist,  an'  a  bit  leary  of  me — I  ain't 
no  bute  at  me  best — but  she  gets  used  to  seein'  me 
about,  an'  as  I  stakes  her  to  or'nges  onct  or  twict,  at 
last  she  gets  stuck  on  me. 

"  D'  Petersens,  an'  me,  an'  me  Rag  is  neighbours  on 
d'  same  floor  for  near  two  years.  An'  days  when  I 
comes  home  early,  an'  me  breat'  ain't  smellin'  of  booze 
— for  d'  kid  welches  every  time  she  sniffs  d'  lush  on  me, 
see  ! — I  used  to  go  in  an'  kiss  Hilda  same  as  she's  me 
own.  An'  between  youse  an'  me,"  and  here  a  drop 
gathered  in  Chucky's  cold  eye,  "  I  ain't  above  tippin' 
it  off  on  d'  quiet,  I  t'inks  a  heap  of  this  young-one,  an' 
feels  better  every  time  I  gets  me  lamps  on  her. 

"  D'  finish  comes  t'ree  days  ago.  D'  old  goil  Peter- 
sen  is  away  woikin',  an'  Hilda,  for  all  it's  so  cold,  is 
playin'  in  d'  passage-way.  There's  one  of  them  plumber 
hold-ups  fixin'  d'  water  pipe  where  it's  sprung  a  leak, 
an'  he's  got  one  of  them  dinky  little  fire  pots  which 
plumbers  lug  'round  wit'  em. 

"  While  this  plumber  stiff  is  busy  wit'  his  graft,  poor 
little  Hilda  t'inks  she'll  warm  her  dolly's  mits  be  d' 
blaze.  She's  holdin'  her  ragbaby's  hooks  over  d' 
plumber's  fire  as  I  comes  up  d'  stairs ;  an'  as  she  hears 
me  foot,  an'  toins  smilin*  to  make  sure  it's  me,  her 
frock  catches,  an'  when  she  chases  screechin'  into  me 


THE  PETERSENS  265 

arms,  she's  a  bundle  of  live  flame.  Say  !  I'd  sooner 
ten  to  one  it  was  me,  an'  that's  no  bluff ! 

"  I  wraps  me  coat  over  her,  an'  gives  d'  fire  d'  quick 
smother,  see !  An'  I  boins  me  dukes  until  it  comes  to 
bein'  mighty  near  a  case  of  stumps  wit'  Chucky  d'  bal 
ance  of  his  joiney  to  d'  tomb. 

"  But  what  th'  'ell !  It  all  don't  do  no  good.  D' 
poor  kid  has  swallered  d'  fire,  an'  she's  d'  deadest  ever 
before  even  I  takes  her  out  of  me  coat. 

"  We  lays  Hilda  out,  me  Rag  an'  me,  on  d'  Peter- 
sens'  bed  ;  an'  d'  cor'ner  sucker,  as  I  says  at  d'  be- 
ginnin',  comes  sprintin'  over  an'  goes  to  holdin'  his 
inkwests. 

"  Bimeby,  d'  mother  gets  home  from  her  tubs,  an' 
that's  where  d'  hard  play  comes  in.  Me  Rag  tells 
her  as  easy  as  she  can  ;  but  youse  could  see  it  was 
a  centre  shot  all  d'  same.  It  soaked  her  where  she 
lived. 

"  *  Foist  d'  man,  an'  then  d'  baby ! '  says  d'  Petersen 
woman,  as  she  sets  on  d'  floor  an'  mourns  ;  '  now  I'll 
soon  go  hunt  for  'em.' 

"  Me  Rag  tries  to  get  her  to  come  in  wit'  us,  but 
she  won't  stan'  for  it.  All  t'rough  d'  night  we  hears 
her  mournin'  an'  groanin'  on  d'  floor  be  d'  side  of 
little  Hilda's  coffin. 

"  D'  kid's  fun'ral  was  yesterday,  an'  a  pulpit  sharp 
from  one  of  d'  Missions  gets  in  on  d'  play,  an'  offishi- 
ates.  Sure  !  it's  a  case  of  Potter's  Field — for  d'  mother 
ain't  got  d'  dough  to  make  good  for  a  grave — but  me 
an'  me  Rag  gets  a  car'ge,  an'  takes  d'  mother  out  to 
see  little  Hilda  planted.  No,  she  don't  cry  much  at 
that  ;  but  me  Rag  toins  in  an'  don't  do  a  t'ing  but 
break  d'  record  for  tears.  If  Hilda  was  her  own  kid, 


366  SANDBURRS 

she  couldn't  have  made  more  of  a  row.  When  it 
comes  to  what  youse  might  call  '  d'  outward  evidences 
of  grief/  me  Rag  simply  lose  d'  Petersen  mother. 

"  D'  mother  was  feelin'  it  all  d'  same.  She  keeps 
whisperin'  to  herself:  'Soon  I'll  go  find  'em!'  like 
that  ;  an'  that's  d'  limit  of  what  youse  could  get  out 
of  her. 

"  It's  last  night,  after  little  Hilda's  put  away, — it's 
mebby,  say,  t'ree  this  mornin',  when  wit'out  a  woid 
of  warnin'  me  Rag  sets  up  straight  in  bed  an'  gives 
a  sniff. 

"  '  Be  d'  mother  of  d'  Holy  Mary  !  it's  gas  ! '  she  says, 
an'  nex'  she  makes  a  straight  wake  for  d'  Petersen 
door. 

"  An'  me  Rag  guesses  right  d'  very  foist  time,  like 
d'  kid  in  d'  song.  Gas  it  was  ;  d'  poor  Petersen  mother 
toins  it  on  full  blast.  She's  croaked  an'  cold  as  a 
wedge,  hours  before  we  tumbles  to  her  game. 

"That's  d'  finish.  As  I  states  d'  foist  dash  out  of 
d'  box,  it's  d'  dandy  hard  luck  story  of  d'  year.  D' 
whole  Petersen  push  is  wiped  out,  same  as  that  bar- 
keep  would  swab  off  his  bar.  On  d'  dead  !  it's  all  too 
many  for  me  !  What's  d'  use  of  folks  bein'  born  at 
all,  if  dey's  goin'  to  get  yanked  in  like  that — t'ree  at 
a  clatter,  an'  all  young  ! 

"  Do  dey  have  re-latiffs  ?  Some  in  d'  old  country, 
I  takes  it.  There's  a  note  d'  Petersen  woman  leaves 
for  me  Rag,  astin*  her  to  write  d'  hist'ry  of  d'  last 
round  an'  wind-up  to  d'  folks  at  home,  an'  givinf 
d'  address.  But  me  ownliest  own  says  '  nit ! '  an* 
chucks  d'  note  in  d'  stove. 

"  '  Dey's  better  off  not  knowin','  says  me  Rag." 


BOWLDER'S  BURGLAR 

BOWLDER'S  wife  and  offspring  were  away  at  the 
time  ;  and  the  time  was  a  night  last  summer.  Mrs.  B. 
was  in  Long  Branch,  and  Bowlder,  left  lonely  and  for 
lorn,  to  look  after  the  house  and  earn  money,  was 
having  a  sad,  bad  time,  indeed. 

Not  that  Bowlder  really  lacked  anything;  but  he 
missed  his  wife  and  little  ones.  Where  before  the 
merry  prattle  of  his  children  made  the  racket  of  a 
boiler  shop,  all  was  solemn  peace  and  hush.  The 
Bowlder  mansion  was  like  a  graveyard. 

Naturally  Bowlder  felt  lonesome ;  and  to  avoid,  as 
much  as  might  be,  having  his  loneliness  thrust  upon 
him  by  the  empty  desolation  of  the  house,  he  made  it 
a  rule  during  his  wife's  absence  not  to  go  home  until 
3  o'clock  A.  M. 

He  was  "  dead  on  his  legs "  by  that  time,  as  he 
expressed  it,  and  went  at  once  to  sleep,  before  the 
absence  of  Mrs.  B.  began  to  prey  upon  him. 

On  the  night,  or  more  properly  morning,  in  ques 
tion,  Bowlder  wended  homeward  at  sharp  3.  He  had 
been  missing  Mrs.  B.  painfully  all  the  evening,  and,  to 
uphold  himself,  subscribed  to  divers  drinks.  These 
last  Bowlder  put  safely  away  within  his  belt,  and  they 
cherished  him  and  taught  him  resignation,  and  he  didn't 
miss  his  wife  as  much  as  he  had. 

The  hoary  truth  is  that  as  Bowlder  drew  near  his 

267 


268  SANDBURRS 

home,  he  had  so  far  conquered  his  sense  of  abandon 
ment  that  he  wasn't  even  thinking  of  his  wife.  He  was 
plodding  along  in  the  middle  of  the  street  for  fear  of 
footpads,  whom  he  fancied  might  be  sauntering  in  the 
shadows  on  either  side,  and  was  really  in  quite  a  happy, 
fortunate  frame  of  mind.  As  Bowlder  turned  in  to 
ward  his  door  he  was  softly  repeating  the  lines : 

"  'Tis  sweet  to  hear  the  watch  dog's  honest  bark, 

Bay  deep-mouthed  welcome  as  we  draw  near  home, 
'Tis  sweet  to  know  there  is  an  eye  will  mark 
Our  coming,  and  grow  brighter  when  we  come." 

Not  that  Bowlder  had  a  watch  dog,  honest  or  other 
wise,  to  bay  him  deep-mouthed  welcome.  And  inas 
much  as  they  had  discharged  the  exile  from  Erin,  who 
aforetime  did  service  as  the  Bowlder  maid-of-all-work, 
when  Mrs.  B.  took  flight  for  the  summer,  there  was 
slight  hope  of  an  eye  on  the  premises  to  grow  brighter 
when  he  came. 

No ;  it  was  not  that  Bowlder  was  really  looking  for 
deep-mouthed  bays  or  brightening  eyes ;  he  was  nat 
urally  musical  and  poetical,  and  the  drinks  he  had  cor 
ralled  had  unlocked  his  nature  in  that  behalf.  Bowlder 
was  reciting  the  lines  quoted  for  the  pleasure  he  drew 
from  their  beauty  ;  not  from  the  prophecy  they  put 
forth  of  any  meeting  to  which  he  looked  forward.  A 
remark  which  escaped  Bowlder  as  he  climbed  his  steps 
and  dexterously  fitted  his  night  key  to  the  day  key 
hole  showed  this. 

"  I  ought  to  have  stayed  at  a  hotel,"  said  Bowlder. 
"  There's  nobody  here  to  rake  me  over  the  coals  for  it, 
and  I'm  going  to  have  a  great  head  on  me  when  I  wake 
up." 


"HOLD    ll1    YOUR    HANDS1."' — l  \ige   2^g, 


BOWLDER'S  BURGLAR  269 

Bowlder  at  last  by  mistake  got  his  latchkey  into  the 
keyhole  to  which  it  related,  and  the  door  swung  inward. 
This  was  a  distinct  success  and  Bowlder  heaved  a  breath 
of  relief.  This  door,  which  had  grown  singularly  ob 
durate  since  Mrs.  B.'s  departure,  had  been  known  to 
hold  Bowlder  at  bay  for  twenty  minutes. 

Bowlder  had  just  cast  his  hat  on  the  hall  floor — he 
intended  to  hang  it  up  in  the  morning  when  he  would 
have  more  time — and  got  as  far  on  a  journey  to  the 
second  story  as  one  step,  when  a  noise  in  the  basement 
dining-room  enlisted  Bowlder's  attention.  His  curi 
osity  rather  than  his  fears  was  aroused  ;  another 
happy  effect  of  his  libations. 

Without  one  thought  of  burglars,  Bowlder  deferred 
his  journey  upstairs,  and  repaired  instead  to  the  din 
ing-room  below.  Bowlder  would  investigate  the  un 
toward  noises  which,  while  soft  and  light,  were  still  of 
such  volume  as  might  tell  upon  the  ear. 

"  Wonder  'f  the  houshe  is  haunted  ? "  observed 
Bowlder  as  he  went  deviously  below. 

It  has  already  been  noted  that  Bowlder  not  once 
bethought  him  of  burglars.  In  truth  he  had  often 
scoffed  at  burglars  while  conversing  with  Mrs.  B.  on 
this  subject  so  interesting  to  ladies.  Bowlder  had  said 
that  no  burglar  could  make  day  wages  robbing  the  house. 

It  had  all  the  thrill  of  perfect  surprise  then  when,  as 
Bowlder  turned  into  his  dining-room,  he  beheld  a  bull's- 
eye  lantern  shedding  a  malevolent  stream  of  light  in 
his  face,  and  caught  the  shadowy  outlines  of  a  tall 
man  behind  it  who  seemed  engaged  in  pointing  a 
pistol  at  him. 

"  Hold  up  your  hands !  "  said  the  tall  man,  "  and 
don't  come  a  step  further,  or  out  goes  your  light ! " 


2/o  SANDBURRS 

"  Well !  I  like  thish !  "  squeaked  Bowlder,  in  a  tone 
of  querulous  complaint,  at  the  same  time,  however, 
clasping  his  hands  above  his  head  ;  "  I  like  thish  ! 
What's  the  row  here  ?  " 

The  tall  man  made  no  reply,  but  came  across  and 
deftly  ran  his  hands  over  Bowlder  for  possible  arms. 
Bowlder  had  no  gun.  The  tall  man  seemed  satisfied, 
and  stepping  back,  told  Bowlder  he  might  sit  down 
on  a  chair  and  rest  his  hands  in  his  lap.  Bowlder 
took  advantage  of  the  permission. 

"  Any  'bjections  to  me  lighting  a  shegar?  "  queried 
Bowlder. 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  the  tall  man. 

Bowlder  was  soon  puffing  away.  Being  friendly, 
not  to  say  polite  by  nature,  Bowlder  bestowed  one  on 
his  visitor. 

"  Is  it  a  mild  cigar?"  asked  the  burglar. 

"  Colorado  claro,"  said  Bowlder. 

"That's  all  right!"  assented  the  other.  "  I  don't 
like  a  strong  smoke ;  it  makes  my  head  ache." 

As  the  visitor  lighted  the  cigar,  Bowlder  noticed  that 
he  wore  a  black  mask  across  his  eyes,  and  that  the 
latter  shone  through  the  apertures  cut  for  their  con 
venience  like  beads.  The  mask  gave  Bowlder  a  chill 
which  the  pistol  had  not  evoked.  Indeed,  it  came 
very  near  destroying  the  whole  force  of  the  drinks  he 
had  accumulated. 

When  the  stranger  had  lighted  his  cigar,  Bowlder 
and  he  puffed  at  each  other  a  moment  without  a  word. 

"What  are  you  doing  in  my  houshe  ? "  at  last  de 
manded  Bowlder. 

The  stranger  smiled  and  puffed  on.  Then  he  kicked 
a.  large  sack  with  his  foot.  Bowlder  had  not  observed 


BOWLDER'S  BURGLAR  271 

this  sack  before.  As  the  stranger  touched  it  with  his 
foot,  it  gave  out  a  metallic  clinking. 

Bowlder's  eyes  roamed  instinctively  to  the  sideboard. 
There  wasn't  much  light  ;  enough,  however,  to  show 
Bowlder  that  the  sideboard's  burden  of  silverware  was 
gone.  With  such  a  start,  Bowlder  was  able  to  infer  a 
great  deal. 

"  Made  a  clean  shweep,  eh  ?  "  remarked  Bowlder. 

The  masked  stranger  nodded. 

"  If  you've  got  all  there  is  loose  and  little  in  the 
houshe,"  said  Bowlder — he  was  talking  plainer  every 
moment  now — "you've  got  $1,500  worth.  Been  up- 
shtairs  yet  ?  " 

Again  the  man  of  the  mask  nodded.  Also  he  ex 
hibited  symptoms  of  being  about  to  depart. 

"  Don't  go  yet !  "  remonstrated  Bowlder.  "  Want 
to  talk  to  you.  Did  you  get  the  old  lady's  jewellery  up 
stairs  ?" 

Again  the  burglar  nodded.  He  seemed  disinclined 
to  use  his  voice  unless  it  was  necessary. 

"  Thash's  bad  !  "  remarked  Bowlder  reflectively;  re 
ferring  to  the  conquest  of  his  wife's  jewellery.  "  The 
old  lady  won't  do  a  thing  but  make  me  buy  her  some 
more.  And  the  worst  of  it  is,  she'll  put  up  the  figures 
on  what  jimcracks  you've  got,  and  insisht  they're  worth 
four  times  their  true  value.  I'm  lucky  if  she  don't  put 
it  higher  than  $1,000.  And  they  ain't  worth  $200; 
you'll  be  lucky  if  you  get  that  on  'em." 

The  burglar  looked  hopeful  as  well  as  he  could  with 
a  mask,  but  retorted  nothing  to  Bowlder.  The  latter 
mused  sorrowfully  over  his  wife's  jewels. 

"  You  see  it  putsh  me  in  the  hole !  "  said  Bowlder. 
"  I  get  it  going  and  coming.  You  come  along  and  rob 


272  SANDBURRS 

me ;  and  then  Mrs.  B.  comes  home  and  robs  me  again. 
Don't  you  think  that's  a  little  rough?" 

The  stranger  said  it  was  rough.  He  didn't  nod  this 
time,  but  used  his  voice.  Encouraged  by  the  agree 
ment  with  his  views,  Bowlder  urged  the  return  of  his 
wife's  jewellery. 

"Just  gimme  back  what's  hers,"  said  Bowlder,  "  and 
you  can  keep  the  rest.  That'll  let  me  out  with  her,  and 
I  don't  care  for  the  balance." 

But  the  man  of  midnight  stoutly  objected.  It  would 
be  a  dead  loss  of  $200,  he  said,  and  worse  yet,  it  would 
be  unprofessional. 

Bowlder  thought  deeply  a  moment.  Then  he  took 
a  new  tack. 

"Any  'bjections  to  taking  a  drink  with  me?"  he 
asked. 

"  None  in  the  world  !  "  said  the  burglar. 

Bowlder  explored  his  coat  pocket  for  a  bottle  he'd 
brought  home  to  restore  him  after  his  sleep.  He 
proffered  the  bottle  to  the  burglar. 

"After  you  is  manners  !  "  said  that  person. 

Bowlder  drank  and  then  the  burglar  did  the  same. 

"  You  a  Republican  ? "  demanded  Bowlder  sud 
denly.  "  I  s'pose  even  burglars  have  their  politics  !  " 

"  Administration  Republican  !  "  said  the  burglar  ; 
"  that's  what  I  am.  I  believe  in  Imperialism  and  a 
sound  currency." 

"  I'm  an  Administration  Republican,  too,"  remarked 
Bowlder.  "  I  knew  we'd  find  common  ground  at  last. 
Now,  as  a  member  of  the  same  party  as  yourself,  I 
want  to  ask  a  favour  of  you.  You've  got  about  $1,500 
worth  of  plunder  there  ;  and  yet,  you  see  yourself, 
there's  a  good  deal  of  furniture  you're  leaving  behind ; 


BOWLDER'S  BURGLAR  273 

piano  upstairs  and  all  that.  Fll  play  you  one  game 
of  ten-point  seven-up  to  see  whether  you  take  all  or 
nothing.  Come,  now,  as  a  favour!" 

The  burglar  hesitated.  He  feared  there  was  a 
trap  in  it.  Bowlder  gave  him  his  word  as  a  goldbug 
that  he  made  the  proffer  in  all  honesty. 

"  If  you  win,"  said  Bowlder,  "  you  can  cart  the  fur 
niture  away  to-morrow.  I'll  order  you  a  waggon  as  I 
go  down,  and  you  can  sleep  in  the  house  and  see  that 
I  don't  carry  off  anything  or  hold  out  on  you." 

"  But  it  ain't  worth  as  much  as  what  I've  got,"  de 
murred  the  burglar. 

"  Well,  see  here  !  "  said  Bowlder — sober  he  was  now 
— "  to  avoid  spoiling  sport  I'll  throw  in  my  watch  and 
$30.  That's  square  !  " 

The  burglar  admitted  that  the  proposal  was  fair,  but 
stuck  for  seven  points. 

"  I  like  straight  seven-up,"  he  said.  "  Make  it  a 
seven-point  game  and  I'll  go  you." 

Bowlder  produced  a  deck  of  cards  from  the  sewing- 
machine  drawer.  At  the  burglar's  own  suggestion 
they  lighted  one  gas  jet. 

"  Cut  for  deal !  "  said  Bowlder. 

The  burglar  cut  a  ten-spot,  Bowlder  a  deuce.  The 
burglar  had  the  deal. 

The  king  of  diamonds  was  turned  as  trump. 

"  Beg  !  "  said  Bowlder. 

"  Take  it  !  "  remarked  the  burglar. 

The  hands  were  played.  Bowlder  had  the  queen 
and  six-spot  of  diamonds ;  the  marauder  had  the  ten, 
nine,  and  seven  of  diamonds.  Bowlder  took  high,  low 
and  the  burglar  counted  game. 

"  No  jack  out !  "  remarked  Bowlder. 
18 


274  SANDBURRS 

"  No,"  said  the  other.  And  then  in  an  abused  tone  ; 
"  Say  !  you  don't  beg  nor  nuthin',  do  you  ?  The  idee 
of  a  gent's  beggin'  in  a  two-hand  game,  a-holdin'  of 
the  queen  and  six." 

They  played  three  hands ;  Jack  had  been  out 
once.  Bowlder  was  keeping  score.  It  stood  : 

"  Bowl.,  I  I  I  I  I  I." 

"  Burg.,  I  I  I  I." 

It  was  Bowlder's  deal.  He  riffled  the  cards  with  the 
deftness  of  one  who  plays  often  and  well. 

"Bound  to  settle  it  this  time!"  said  the  burglar. 
"  The  score  stands  6  to  4.  You  bet  your  life  !  I'll  stand 
on  the  bare  jack  if  I  get  it." 

Bowlder  threw  the  cards  around  and  turned  trump 
with  a  snap.  It  was  the  jack  of  clubs. 

The  burglar  looked  at  it  wistfully,  even  sadly. 

"  That's  square,  is  it  ?  "  he  said  to  Bowlder  in  a  tone 
of  half  reproach.  "  You  ain't  the  party  to  go  and  turn 
a  jack  on  a  poor  crook  from  the  bottom  of  the  deck, 
and  you  only  one  to  go?" 

Bowlder  assured  him  the  transaction  was  perfectly 
honest. 

"  Yes,  I  guess  it  was,"  said  the  burglar,  rising.  "  I 
was  watching  you,  and  I  guess  it  was  straight.  It's 
just  my  luck,  that's  all.  Well !  I  must  go  ;  it's  getting 
along  towards  4  :  30  o'clock." 

"  Have  a  drink  !  "  said  Bowlder,  "  and  take  another 
cigar ! " 

The  cracksman  took  a  drink.  Then  he  selected  a 
cigar  from  Bowlder's  proffered  case. 

"  If  it's  all  the  same  to  youse,"  said  the  burglar, 
"  I'll  smoke  this  later  on— after  breakfast."  And  he 
put  the  cigar  in  his  pocket. 


BOWLDER'S  BURGLAR  275 

"  Here  ;  let  me  show  you  out  this  way,"  said  Bowl 
der,  leading  the  way  to  the  front  basement  door. 

"  I  hates  to  ask  it  of  a  stranger,"  said  the  burglar,  as 
he  hesitated  just  outside  the  door,  "  but  the  Eight' 
Avenoo  cars'll  be  runnin'  in  a  little  while  now,  and 
would  you  mind  lendin'  me  a  nickel  ?  I  lives  down  be 
the  Desbrosses  Ferry." 

Of  course  Bowlder  would  lend  him  car-fare.  This 
somewhat  raised  the  burglar's  spirits,  made  sad  by 
seven-up.  As  he  closed  the  door  behind  him,  the 
burglar  looked  back  at  Bowlder. 

"  Do  you  know,  pard,"  he  said,  "  if  it  wasn't  for  my 
weakness  for  gamblin',  I'd  been  a  rich  man  a  dozen 
times." 


ANGELINA  McLAURIN 

(Bv  THE  OFFICE  BOY) 

ANGELINA  McLAURiN's  was  a  rare  face ;  a  beautiful 
face.  It  had  but  one  defect :  Angelina's  nose  was  curved 
like  the  wing  of  a  gull.  This  gave  her  an  air  of  resolu 
tion  and  command  that  affected  the  onlooker  like  a  sign 
which  says  :  "  Look  out  for  the  engine." 

Still,  Angelina  McLaurin  was  bewitchingly  lovely,  a 
result  much  aided  in  its  coming  about  by  a  form  so 
admirably  upholstered  that  to  look  upon  her  would 
have  made  Diana  tired. 

It  was  a  soft,  sensuous  September  afternoon.  Ange 
lina  McLaurin  was  impatiently  holding  down  a  richly 
cushioned  chair  in  the  library  of  the  noble  McLaurin 
mansion — one  of  those  stately  piles  which  are  the  pride 
of  Washington  Heights.  She  was  awaiting  the  coming 
of  her  affianced  husband,  George  Maurice  St.  John. 

"  Why  does  he  prove  so  dilatory?"  she  murmured. 
"  Methinks  true  love  would  not  own  such  leaden  feet !  " 

As  Angelina  McLaurin  arose  to  gaze  from  the  window 
she  rocked  on  the  tail  of  the  ample  Angora  cat. 

The  cat  made  it  a  point  to  hang  out  in  the  library 
every  afternoon.  On  this  occasion,  while  Angelina 
McLaurin  was  dreaming  of  her  lover,  the  cat  had  taken 
advantage  of  her  abstraction  to  deftly  bestow  his  tail 
beneath  the  rocker  of  her  chair.  When  Angelina  arose, 

as  stated,  the  cat  got  the  worst  of  it. 
276 


ANGELINA  McLAURIN  277 

As  the  rocker  came  down  on  the  cat's  tail,  the  cat 
exploded  into  observations  in  Angorese  that  are  unfit 
for  these  pages.  Angelina  was  not  only  startled  out  of 
herself,  but  almost  out  of  her  frock.  Angelina  and  the 
cat  arose  hastily,  and  stood  there  panting. 

As  the  shrieks  of  the  wronged  exile  from  Angora 
were  uplifted  into  space,  the  door  of  the  library  burst 
violently  open. 

"What  is  the  matter,  dearest?  Are  you  injured? 
Why  do  you  cry  for  help  ?  " 

It  was  George  Maurice  St.  John  who  asked  the 
question.  As  he  did  so,  he  caught  Angelina  McLaurin 
in  his  powerful  arms,  while  the  Angora  cat,  his  worst 
fears  now  realised,  chased  himself  down  the  hall  with 
tail  excited  to  lamp-cleaner  size. 

"  What  is  it,  love?"  asked  George  Maurice  St.  John, 
as  he  tenderly  unloaded  his  delicious  burden  onto  a  sofa. 
"  Speak!  it  is  the  voice  of  your  George  who  bids  you. 
Has  any  one  dared  to  insult  the  coming  bride  of  a  St. 
John?" 

"  Bear  with  me,  George  !  "  she  whispered.  "  Believe 
me,  I  will  be  better  anon !  " 

After  a  few  moments  she  recovered,  and  was  able  to 
smile  through  her  tears  at  the  alarm  of  her  dear  one. 
Then  she  told  George  all :  how  the  cat  had  been  ass 
enough  to  leave  his  tail  lying  around  loose  while  asleep  ; 
how,  in  the  intensity  of  her  waiting,  she  had  put  a  crimp 
in  it  with  the  fell  rocker  of  the  chair ;  and  how  the  cat 
had  been  drawn  into  statements,  by  sheer  dint  of  agony, 
which  it  was  impolitic  as  well  as  useless  to  repeat. 

"So  I  was  just  in  time,  Angelina,  to  relieve  both 
you  and  the  cat  of  what  was  doubtless  an  awkward  sit 
uation."  And  George  Maurice  St.  John  laughed  gaily. 


2;$  SANDBURRS 

Then  he  kissed  her  with  a  fervour  that  left  nothing  to 
be  wished  for,  and  Angelina  took  a  brace  and  sat  erect 
on  the  sofa. 

"  I  feel  better  now !  "  she  remarked. 

George  tried  to  get  in  another  kiss,  but  she  stood 
him  off. 

"  Don't  crowd  your  luck,  dear ! "  she  said,  with  a 
sweet  softness.  "  I  am  yours  for  ever,  and  there  is  not 
the  slightest  need  for  any  excess  of  osculatory  zeal. 
You  are  to  have  me  with  you  always,  so  set  a  brake  or 
two  and  take  the  grades  easy." 

Thus  repulsed,  George  Maurice  St.  John  sat  abashed. 
A  pained  look  seamed  his  features  ;  he  bit  his  lips 
and  was  silent. 


Daylight  became  twilight,  and  twilight  retreated  into 
the  darkness  of  a  new  night.  It  struck  eight  o'clock 
in  the  adjoining  tower,  and  George  Maurice  St  John 
was  a-hungered.  His  stomach  was  the  first  to  tip  it 
off  to  him. 

"  Don't  we  feed  to-night?  "  asked  George  Maurice 
St.  John. 

The  lovers  for  two  hours  had  chattered  aimlessly,  as 
ones  wandering  in  a  wilderness  of  bliss.  This  was  the 
first  pointed  remark. 

"  Anon  !  love  ;  we  will  feed  anon  !  "  replied  Angelina 
McLaurin  dreamily.  "  But,  George,  before  we  get  in 
our  gustatory  work,  I  would  a  word  with  you — indeed  ! 
sundry  words." 

"Aim  low,  and  send  'em  along!"  said  George. 
"  What  is  it  my  Queen  would  learn  from  her  slave?  " 

In  his  ecstacy  he  achieved  a  "  half  Nelson  "  on  the 


ANGELINA  McLAURIN  279 

lovely  girl,  and  caught  her  in  the  back  of  the    neck 
with  a  kiss. 

The  Angora  cat,  who  was  stealthily  threading  the 
hall,  intending  to  play  a  return  game  with  the  library 
rug,  gave  a  great  convulsive  start  at  the  kiss,  which  car 
ried  him  out  of  the  mansion,  and  over  the  alley  fence. 

"  They're  a  mark  too  high  for  me  !  "  said  the  Angora 
to  himself. 

Then  inflating  his  lungs  to  the  last  limit  of  expansion, 
the  Angora  sent  a  song  of  invitation  down  the  line  that 
set  every  Tabby  in  the  block  to  washing  her  face  and 
combing  her  ears. 

"Your  Queen  wants  a  square  heel-and-toe  talk, 
George,"  said  the  sweet  girl,  as  she  tucked  up  her  silken 
locks,  dishevelled  by  his  caresses  into  querulous  little 
rings.  "  And  your  Queen  wants  straight  goods  this 
time,  and  no  guff!  Oh,  darling!  "  continued  Angelina 
McLaurin  in  a  passionate  outburst,  "  be  square  with 
me,  and  make  me  those  promises  upon  which  my  life's 
happiness  depends  ! " 

George  Maurice  St.  John  strained  Angelina  to  his 
bosom. 

"  I'll  promise  anything !  "  he  said.  "  What  wouldst 
thou  have  me  do?  My  life,  my  fortune,  my  honour — 
my  all,  I  lay  at  your  feet !  Monkey  with  them  as  thou 
wilt." 

"  Then  listen  !  "  said  Angelina. 

•x-  *  *  #  *  # 

"  George,  we  are  to  be  wedded  in  a  month,  are  we 
not?" 

"  We  are  !  "  he  cried  exultantly ;  and  again  he  es- 
sayed  the  "  half  Nelson,"  and  attempted  to  bury  his 
nose  in  her  mane. 


280  SANDBURRS 

"  Don't  get  gay,  George !  "  she  said  mournfully,  as 
she  broke  George's  lock,  and  gently  but  firmly  pushed 
his  bows  off  a  point ;  "  don't  get  funny !  but  hear 
me." 

"  Go  on,"  said  George,  and  his  tones  showed  that 
his  failure  pierced  him  like  a  javelin.  "  We  are  to  be 
wedded  in  a  month.  What  then,  lady  ?  " 

"  George,"  said  Angelina  McLaurin,  and  the  tear- 
jewels  shone  in  her  eyes,  "  don't  think  me  unwomanly, 
but  you  know  how  I  am  f?.xed  ; — father  and  mother 
both  dead !  I  am  an  orphan,  George,  and  must  heel- 
and-handle  myself." 

"  Even  so  !  "  said  George,  and  his  face  showed  his 
sympathy. 

"  Then,  George,  before  we  take  that  step  to  the  altar," 
she  went  on  steadily  enough,  but  with  a  quaver  in  her 
voice  which  his  ear,  made  sensitive  by  great  love,  did 
not  fail  to  detect :  "  before  we  take  that  step,  I  say, 
from  which  there  is  no  retreat,  I  must  know  certain 
things.  You  must  make  me  certain  promises." 

"  Name  them,"  he  whispered,  and  his  deep  voice 
overran  her  like  a  melody. 

u  Then,  George,"  she  said,  "is  it  too  much  to  ask 
that  $100,000  worth  of  property  be  settled  upon  me  at 
this  time?" 

"  My  solicitors  have  already  received  my  instructions 
to  make  it  a  million."  George  Maurice  St.  John's 
voice  dwelt  fondly  on  the  settlement.  "  It  is  but  a 
beggarly  ante  in  such  a  game  of  table-stakes  as  this !  " 

This  time  Angelina  McLaurin  did  not  decline  his 
endearments.  When  he  let  up,  she  continued  : 

"  And  it's  dead  sure  I  go  to  the  Shore  each  summer?  " 

"  It  is  a  welded  cinch,"  he  replied,  as  he  drew  her 


ANGELINA  McLAURIN  281 

nearer  to  him.     "  You  take  in  the  coast  from  Bar  Har 
bour  to  the  Florida  Keys." 

"  And  servants  ?  " 

"  A  mob  shall  minister  unto  thee,"  he  said. 

"  Then  I  have  but  one  more  boon,  George,"  she 
murmured,  "  grant  that,  and  I  am  thine  forever." 

"  Board  the  card  !  "  cried  George ;  "  I  promise  before 
you  ask." 

"  Say  not  so,"  she  said  with  a  sweet  sadness ;  "  but 
muzzle  your  lips  and  listen.  You  must  quit  golf." 

"  What  !  "  shrieked  George,  with  an  energy  that  sent 
the  Angora  backward  off  a  shed-roof  of  dubious  repute, 
from  which  he  was  carolling  to  his  low  companions; 
"  what !  "  he  repeated.  "  Woman,  think  !  " 

"  I  have  thought,  George,"  responded  Angelina  Mc- 
Laurin,  with  an  air  of  sorrowful  firmness.  "There  is 
but  one  alternative  :  saw  short  off, — saw  short  off  on 
golf,  or  give  me  up  forever !  " 

"  Is  this  some  horrid  dream  ?"  he  hissed,  as  he  strode 
up  and  down  the  library. 

At  last  he  paused  before  her. 

"  Woman,"  he  said  sternly,  "  look  on  me  !  Is  this 
some  lightsome  bluff,  or  does  it  go?  Dost  mean  it, 
woman?" 

"Ay!  I  mean  it!"  answered  Angelina,  while  her 
cheek  paled  and  her  breath  came  quick  and  fast.  Don't 
make  any  mistake  on  that ;  I  mean  it.  My  talk  goes. 
And  my  hand  is  off  my  chips." 

"  Is  this  your  love  ?  "  he  sneered,  bitterly. 
'  It  is,"  she  faltered.     "  I  have  spoken,  and  I  abide 
your  answer." 

"  Then,  girl,"  said  George  Maurice  St.  John,  and  his 
words  were  cold  and  hard,  "  all  is  over  between  us. 


282  SANDBURRS 

You  would  drive  me  into  a  corner  and  take  away  my 
golf !  I  say  No  !  No  !  a  thousand  times,  No  !  " 

At  this  outbreak  the  curve  in  Angelina's  nose  be 
came  more  intense.  She  dried  her  eyes.  Her  features, 
too,  became  as  flint.  She  even  cut  loose  a  low,  mock 
ing  laugh. 

"  Be  it  so  !  "  she  said  ;  "  sirrah,  take  your  ring  !  " 

He  seized  the  bauble  and  ground  it  beneath  his  heel. 
As  he  did  so  her  strength  failed  her,  and  she  sank  to 
the  floor. 

"  That  knocked  her  out ! "  he  muttered,  and  he 
started  to  count :  "  One  !— Two  ! — Three — Four  ! " 

"  Oh,  not  necessarily !  "  she  said,  struggling  to  her 
feet.  "  I'm  still  in  it ;  and  I  say  again,  give  up  golf, 
or  give  up  me  !  " 

"  The  die  is  cast !  "  and  as  he  spoke  the  fatal  words, 
the  eyes  of  George  Maurice  St.  John  took  on  the  firm, 
irrevocable  expression  of  a  fish's  set  in  death.  "  I 
wouldn't  give  up  golf  for  the  best  woman  that  ever  put 
a  dress  on  over  her  head.  Maiden,  you  ask  too  much  ; 
you  come  too  high  !  Damsel,  I  quit  you  cold  ! " 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

George  Maurice  St.  John  rushed  from  the  scene. 
The  ponderous  door,  as  it  slammed  behind  him,  echoed 
and  re-echoed  through  the  vaulted  apartments  of  the 
McLaurin  mansion.  Angelina  McLaurin  listened  until 
his  footsteps  died  away  far  up  the  street. 

"  He  has  flew  the  coop  on  me  !  "  she  wailed. 

Then  she  gave  way  to  a  torrent  of  tears.  In  her 
distress  Angelina  McLaurin  was  more  beautiful  than 
ever.  Two  minutes !  Five  minutes !  Ten  minutes 
went  by!  Her  tears  still  fell  like  rain. 


ANGELINA  McLAURIN  283 

"  I  have  turned  the  hose  on  my  hopes !  "  she  said. 

This  was  the  thought  that  crossed  her  mind  ;  but 
she  desperately  womanned  (word  coined  since  advent 
of  new  woman)  herself  to  bear  it. 

Still  afloat  on  the  sad  currents  of  her  tears,  her  head 
bowed,  a  light  sound  beat  upon  the  tympanum  of 
Angelina  McLaurin.  She  looked  quickly  up  and 
squared  herself  to  emit  a  glad  cry,  if  one  should  be 
necessary. 

What  was  it  ? 

Something  had  come  back. 

True !  it  was  the  Angora  cat. 

As  the  Angora  flung  himself  upon  the  rug  with  an 
air  of  reckless  abandon,  Angelina  McLaurin  gazed  at 
him  with  a  wistful  fixedness.  One  eye  was  closed, 
his  fur  was  torn,  blood  dripped  from  his  lacerated  ears. 
He  was,  in  good  sooth,  but  a  tattered  Angora!  An 
gelina  McLaurin  laughed  long  and  wildly. 

"  He,  too,  has  got  it  in  the  neck ! " 


DINKY  PETE 
(ANNALS  OF  THE  BEND) 

"  Do  we  have  romances  on  d'  East  Side  !  "  and 
Chucky's  voice  was  vibrant  with  the  scorn  my  doubts 
provoked.  "  Do  we  have  romances  !  Well,  I  don't 
t'ink  !  Say  !  there's  days  when  we  don't  have  nothin' 
else." 

At  this  crisis  Chucky  called  for  another  glass ;  did  it 
without  invitation.  This  last  spoke  of  and  betrayed  a 
sense  of  injury. 

"  Let  me  tell  youse,"  continued  Chucky,  "  an'  d' 
yarn  don't  cost  you  a  cent,  see !  how  Dinky  Pete  sends 
Jimmy  d'  barkeep  back  to  his  wife.  It's  what  I  calls 
romantic  for  a  hundred  plunks. 

"  Not  that  Jimmy  ever  leaves  her,  for  that  matter; 
that  is,  he  don't  leave  her  for  fair!  But  he's  sort  o* 
organism'  for  d'  play  when  Dinky  Pete  puts  d'  kybosh 
on  d'  notion,  an'  wit'  that  Jimmy  don't  chase  at  all, 
see! 

"  Jimmy  d'  barkeep  is  some  soft  in  d'  nut,  see!  Nit, 
he  ain't  really  got  w'eels  ;  ain't  bad  enough  for  d'  bug 
house  ;  but  he's  a  bit  funny  in  his  cocoa — mostly  be 
way  of  bein'  dead  stuck  on  himself. 

"  An'   bein'  weak    d'   way  I  says,  Jimmy   is  a  high 
roller  for  clothes  ;  always  sports  a  w'ite  t'ree-sheet,  wit' 
a  rock  blazin'  in  d'  centre,  big  enough  to   trip  a  dog. 
An'  say !  his  necktie's  a  dream,  an'  his  hat's  d'  limit ! 
284 


DINKY  PETE  285 

"What's  a  t'ree-sheet ?  an'  what's  a  rock?  I  don't 
want  to  give  you  no  insultin'  tips,  but  on  d'  square ! 
youse  ought  to  take  a  toim  at  night  school.  Why  !  a 
t'ree-sheet  is  his  shirt,  an'  d'  rock  I  names  is  Jimmy's 
spark !  Of  course,  d'  spark  ain't  d'  real  t'ing ;  only  a 
rhinestone ;  but  it  goes  in  d'  Bend  all  d'  same  for  a 
2-carat  headlight. 

"  Jimmy  makes  a  tidy  bit  of  dough,  see  !  He  gets, 
mebby  it's  fifteen  bones  a  week,  an'  I  makes  no  doubt 
he  shakes  down  d'  bar  for  ten  more,  which  is  far  from 
bad  graft.  So  it  ain't  s'prisin'  one  day  when  Jimmy 
gets  it  stuck  in  his  frizzes  he'll  be  married. 

"  Jimmy's  Bundle  is  all  right  at  that.  Her  name's 
Annie,  an*  she's  a  proper  straight  chip.  An'  that  ain't 
no  song  an'  dance ;  square  as  a  die  she  was.  An'  a 
bute  !  She  was  d'  pick  of  d'  Bowery  crush,  an'  don't 
youse  doubt  it. 

"  Well,  Jimmy  an'  Annie  goes  on  wit'  their  court 
ships,  I  takes  it,  same  as  if  dey  lives  on  Fift'  Avenoo. 
Annie's  a  mil'ner,  an'  while  she  don't  have  money  to 
t'row  to  d'  boids,  she  woiks  for  enough  so  it's  as  good 
as  a  stan'-off  on  livin',  which  is  all  her  hand  calls  for  an' 
all  she  asts.  If  she  don't  quit  winner  after  trimmin* 
hats  a  week,  at  any  rate  she  don't  get  in  d'  hole, 
see! 

"  Oh,  yes;  she  an'  Jimmy  gets  action  on  d'  sights. 
Now  an'  then  it's  Coney  Island ;  then  ag'in  it's  a  front 
seat  at  d'  People's  ;  or  mebby  if  some  of  d'  squeeze 
has  a  dance,  dey  pulls  on  their  skates  an'  steps  in  on 
d'  spiel.  An'  say  !  as  a  spieler  Annie's  a  wonder,  an' 
don't  youse  forget  it.  I  has  d'  woid  for  it  from  me 
own  Rag,  an'  when  it  comes  to  pickin'  out  a  dancer, 
you  can  trust  me  Rag  to  be  dead  on  in  a  minute.  D' 


236  SANDBURRS 

loidy  can  do  a  dizzy  stunt  or  two  on  a  wax  floor  her 
self  when  it  comes  to  a  show-down. 

"  But  about  me  romance.  Jimmy  has  chased  around 
wit'  Annie,  say  it's  t'ree  mont's.  An'  all  this  time  his 
strong  play  is  voylets,  see  !  Annie  is  gone  on  voylets, 
so  each  evenin'  Jimmy  toins  in  on  Dinky  Pete,  who 
sells  poipers  an'  peanuts,  an'  some  of  this  hard,  bum 
candy  you  breaks  your  teet's  on.  Dinky  also  deals  a 
little  flower  game,  wit'  about  a  5-cent  limit,  an'  that's 
what  gets  Jimmy.  Just  as  I  says,  each  evenin'  Jimmy 
sticks  in  a  nickel  for  a  bunch  of  voylets  at  Dinky's  an' 
sends  some  kid — Dinky's  joint  is  a  great  hang-out  for 
d'  kids — to  take  'em  up  to  Annie. 

"  An'  them  voylets  tickles  Annie  to  death. 

"  At  last  all  goes  well,  an'  Jimmy  an'  Annie  gets 
spliced.  An'  it's  all  right  at  that !  Me  Rag,  who  calls 
on  'em,  says  Jimmy  an'  Annie's  d'  happiest  ever,  an' 
gettin'  d'  boss  run  for  their  money. 

"  It's  about  a  year  when  Annie  don't  do  a  t'ing  but 
have  a  kid.  At  foist  Jimmy  likes  it,  an'  lets  on  it's  d' 
racket  of  his  career.  But  after  a  while  Jimmy  gets  chilly 
— sort  o'  gets  sore  on  d'  kid.  Me  Rag  gives  me  a  pointer 
it's  mostly  Annie's  fault.  She  stars  d'  kid  too  heavy, 
an'  it  makes  Jimmy  feel  like  a  deuce  in  a  bum  deck; 
makes  him  t'ink  he  ain't  so  strong — ain't  so  warm  as  he 
was.  An'  it  toins  out'  Annie,  bein'  always  busy  mon- 
keyin'  wit'  d'  young-one,  an'  givin'  Jimmy  d'  languid 
eye,  d'  nex'  news  you  get,  Jimmy  is  back  on  d'  street 
when  he  is  off  watch,  tryin'  to  pipe  off  some  fun. 

"  I  never  knows  where  she  catches  on  wit'  Jimmy, 
but  it  ain't  no  time  when  one  of  them  razzle-dazzle 
blondes  has  him  on  d'  string.  She's  doin'  d'  grand  at 
that,  see !  an'  givin'  him  d'  haughty  stand-off. 


DINKY  PETE  287 

"Mebby  Jimmy  met  her  on  d'  street  onct  or  twict, 
when  for  d'  foist  time,  Goldie — which  is  this  blonde 
tart's  name — says  Jimmy  can  come  an'  see  her. 

"  It's  been  mont's  since  Jimmy's  done  d'  flower  act  at 
Dinkey  Pete's.  But  d'  sucker  t'inks  it's  d'  night  of  his 
life,  an'  so  he  chases  in  an'  goes  ag'inst  Pete's  counter 
for  a  bunch. 

"  This  Dinky  Pete's  a  dead  queer  little  mug.  He's  a 
short,  sawed-off  mark,  wit'  a  humpy  back  an'  a  bum 
lamp.  But  you  can  gamble  your  life !  Dinky  Pete's 
heart  is  on  straight,  whether  his  back  is  or  not. 

"  It's  be  chanct  I'm  in  Dinky  Pete's  meself  d'  time 
Jimmy  is  out  to  meet  this  blonde  mash.  Now,  at  d' 
time  I  ain't  onto  Jimmy's  curves ;  I  don't  tumble  to  d' 
play  till  a  week  later,  when  me  Rag  puts  me  on. 

"  Wat  was  I  doin'  in  Dinky  Pete's?  Flowers? 
Nit ;  not  on  your  life !  Naw  ;  I  wants  to  change  me 
luck.  I'd  got  d'  gaff  at  draw  poker  d'  night  before,  an' 
I'm  layin'  for  Dinky  Pete  for  to  rub  his  hump  on  d' 
sly.  Sure !  Youse'll  have  luck  out  of  sight.  Only 
you  mustn't  let  d'  humpback  guy  get  on.  If  he  no 
tices  you  rubbin'  his  hump  it'll  give  youse  bad  luck, 
see! 

"  Jimmy  comes  in,  an'  at  foist,  be  force  of  habit,  I 
s'spose,  he's  goin'  to  plunge  on  voylets.  But  he  t'inks 
of  Annie,  an'  he  can't  stand  for  it.  Wit'  that,  Jimmy 
shifts  his  brush  an'  tells  Dinky  Pete  to  toin  him  out 
some  roses. 

"  *  An'  make  'em  d'  reddest  in  d'  joint,  see  ! '  says 
Jimmy. 

"  Dinky  Pete's  got  his  mits  on  some  voylets,  but 
when  Jimmy  says  'roses'  Dinky  comes  to  a  stan' 
still. 


288  SANDBURRS 

"  '  Wat !  roses  ? '  says  Dinky  Pete,  an'  his  ratty 
eyes — one  of  'em  on  d'  hog,  as  I  states — looks  dead 
sharp  at  Jimmy.  '  Roses?  '  he  repeats. 

"  '  That's  what  I  says ! '  is  d'  way  Jimmy  comes  back. 

" '  Better  take  voylets,'  says  Dinky,  an'  he  stops 
foolin'  wit'  d'  flowers  an'  gives  Jimmy  d'  gimlet  eye. 

"  '  Nit,'  declares  Jimmy  ;  '  I'm  dead  onto  me  needs. 
Give  me  roses.' 

"  '  But  roses  won't  last,'  says  Dinky,  an'  his  look  is 
sharp  an'  soft  an'  sad  all  at  onct.  'Roses  won't  last, 
an'  that's  for  fair,'  says  Dinky,  '  while  voylets  is  stayers. 
Better  take  voylets,  Jimmy  ! ' 

"But  Jimmy  gets  sullen  an'  won't  have  no  voylets, 
see!  An'  he  swings  an'  rattles  wit'  Dinky  that  he 
wants  roses — roses  red  as  blood. 

"  *  Roses  has  thorns,'  goes  on  Dinky,  still  holdin' 
his  lamps  on  Jimmy  in  d'  same  queer  way  ;  'you  don't 
want  roses,  Jimmy  ;  you  just  t'inks  you  want  roses! 
Be  a  square  bloke,  Jimmy  ;  be  yourself  an'  take  voy 
lets !' 

"An*  I'm  damned!"  declares  Chucky,  "if  Jimmy 
don't  begin  to  look  like  a  whipped  kid,  an'  d'  foist 
t'ing  I  knows,  he  welches  on  roses,  grabs  off  a  bunch 
of  voylets  big  enough  to  make  a  salad,  an'  goes  chasin' 
home  to  Annie.  Me  Rag  is  there  when  Jimmy  pours 
in. 

"  Say !  It's  d'  finish  of  d'  blonde  !  She  ain't  in  it ! 
Me  rag,  on  d'  quiet,  gives  Annie  d'  chin-chin  of  her  ex 
istence,  an'  shows  her  Jimmy  ain't  gettin'  a  square  deal. 
An'  Annie — who,  for  all  she's  nutty  about  d'  kid,  is  a 
dead  wise  fowl  just  d'  same — takes  a  tumble,  an'  from 
that  time  she  makes  d'  bettin'  even  money  on'  bot'  d' 
young-one  an*  Jimmy.  D'  last  time  I  sees  Jimmy  he 


DINKY  PETE  289 

stops  to  tell  me  that  Annie's  a  peach,  an'  d'  kid's  a 
wonder.  An*  he's  lookin'  like  a  nine-times  winner  him 
self.  Now  don't  youse  call  that  a  romance  for  Dinky 
Pete  to  get  onto  Jimmy's  game  so  quick,  an'  stickin' 
to  him  till  he  takes  d*  voylet  steer?  Ain't  it  a  ro 
mance  ?  Well !  I  should  kiss  a  pig  !  " 
'9 


CRIB  OR  COFFIN? 
I 

YOUNG  Jones  stood  in  the  telegraph  office — the  one 
at  Twenty-third  Street  and  Broadway.  There  was  an 
air  of  triumph  about  Jones,  an  atmosphere  of  insolent 
sagacity,  which  might  belong  to  one  who,  by  some 
sudden,  skilful  sleight  had  caught  a  starling.  Yet 
Jones's  victory  was  in  nowise  uncommon.  Others  had 
achieved  it  many  a  time  and  oft.  It  was  simply  a  baby  ; 
young  Jones  had  become  a  papa,  and  it  was  this  that 
gave  him  those  frills  which  we  have  chronicled.  The 
presence  of  young  Jones  in  the  telegraph  office  might 
be  explained  by  looking  over  his  shoulder.  This  is  the 
message  he  wrote : 

NEW  YORK  CITY,  Dec.  8,  '99. 
COLONEL  STUYVESANT  VAN  EPPS, 

ALBANY,  N.  Y. 

I  still  take  it  you  are  interested  in  the  census  of  your  family.  Recent 
events  in  this  city  have  altered  the  figures.  Don't  attempt  to  write  a 
history  of  the  tribe  of  Van  Epps  without  consulting 

SANFORD  JONES. 

"  There  !  "  said  young  Jones,  "  that  ought  to  fetch 
him.  He  won't  know  whether  I  mean  the  birth  of  a 
baby  or  Mary's  death.  If  he  doesn't  come  to  see  her 
now,  I  will  mark  him  off  my  list  for  good.  I  would  as 
it  stands,  if  it  were  not  for  Mary." 
290 


CRIB  OR  COFFIN?  291 

"Won't  father  worry,  dear?"  asked  Mary,  when 
young  Jones  repeated  the  ambiguous  message  he  had 
aimed  at  his  up-the-State  father-in-law. 

"  I  expect  him  to  shed  apprehensive  tears  all  the 
way  to  New  York,"  replied  young  Jones.  "  But  don't 
fret,  Mary  ;  I  am  sure  he  will  come  ;  and  a  tear  or  two 
won't  hurt  him.  They  will  help  his  eyes,  even  though 
they  do  his  heart  no  good.  I  don't  resent  his  treat 
ment  of  me,  but  his  neglect  of  you  is  not  so  easy  to 
forgive." 

II 

THIS  was  the  story  : 

Back  four  years,  Albany  would  have  shown  you 
young  Jones  opening  his  law  office  in  that  hamlet. 
Mary  was  "  Mary  Van  Epps."  At  that  time  seven 
teen  years  was  all  the  family  register  allowed  to  her 
for  age. 

Her  father,  Colonel  Stuyvesant  Van  Epps,  was  one 
of  the  leading  citizens  of  Albany.  While  not  a  million 
aire,  he  was  of  sufficient  Wealth  to  dazzle  the  local  eye, 
and  he  was  always  mentioned  by  the  denizens  of  his 
native  place  as  "  rich." 

Colonel  Stuyvesant  Van  Epps  had  a  weakness.  He 
was  slave  to  the  pedigree  habit.  Never  a  day  went  by 
but  he  called  somebody's  attention  to  those  celebrities 
who  aforetime  founded  and  set  flowing  the  family  of 
Van  Epps  ;  and  he  proposed  at  some  hour  in  the  future 
to  write  a  history  of  that  eminent  house.  With  his 
wealth  and  his  family  pride  to  prompt  him,  it  came 
easy  one  day  for  Colonel  Stuyvesant  Van  Epps  to 
object  with  decision  and  vigour  to  a  match  between 
young  Jones  and  his  daughter  Mary. 


292  SANDBURRS 

"  They  were  both  fools !  "  he  said. 

Then  he  pointed  out  that  the  day  would  never  dawn 
when  a  plebeian  like  unto  Jones,  without  lineage  or 
lucre,  boasting  nothing  better  than  a  law  office  vacant  of 
practice,  and  on  which  the  rent  was  in  arrears  three 
months,  would  wed  a  daughter  of  the  Van  Epps. 
Colonel  Stuyvesant  Van  Epps,  in  elaboration  of 
his  objection,  showed  that  beyond  a  taste  to  drink 
whiskey  and  a  speculative  bent  toward  draw  poker,  he 
knew  of  nothing  which  young  Jones  possessed.  Colonel 
Stuyvesant  Van  Epps  closed,  as  he  began,  with  the  em 
phatic  announcement  that  no  orange  blossoms  would 
ever  blow  for  the  nuptials  of  young  Jones  and  Mary 
Van  Epps. 

Colonel  Stuyvesant  Van  Epps  in  his  attitude  will 
have  the  indorsement  of  all  good  Christian  people. 
He  was  right  as  a  father.  As  a  prophet  touching 
orange  blossoms,  however,  he  was  what  vulgar  souls 
call  "  off."  Of  that  anon. 


Ill 


YOUNG  Jones  more  than  half  believed  that  Colonel 
Stuyvesant  Van  Epps  was  right.  So  far  as  whiskey 
and  draw  poker  were  concerned,  he  went  with  him  ; 
but  with  Colonel  Stuyvesant  Van  Epps'  objections  to 
him,  based  on  the  lack  of  pedigree  and  a  failure  of 
pocket-book,  he  didn't  sympathise. 

"  I  may  be  poor,  and  my  family  tree  may  be,,  a  mul 
lein  stalk,  but  I  am  still  a  fitting  mate  for  any  member 
of  the  Van  Epps  tribe." 

Thus  spake  young  Jones  to  Colonel  Stuyvesant  Van 
Epps.  He  then  took  the  earliest  private  occasion  to 


CRIB  OR  COFFIN?  293 

kiss  Mary  good-bye,  give  her  his  picture,  and  make  her 
his  promise  to  wed  her  within  five  years. 

"  Would  she  wait  ?  " 

"  I  would  wait  a  century,"  said  Mary. 

Young  Jones  kissed  Mary  again  after  that.  The 
next  day  Albany  was  short  one  citizen,  and  that  citizen 
was  young  Jones.  Albany  is  short  to  this  day. 

IV 

LET  us  drop  details.  Good  luck  came  to  young 
Jones,  hard  on  the  lonely  heels  of  his  evacuation  of 
Albany.  He  was  named  a  junior  partner  of  a  New 
York  City  law  firm.  His  income  equalled  his  hope. 
He  dismissed  whiskey  and  draw  poker,  and  he  wrote 
to  Mary  Van  Epps  : 

"  Could  he  claim  her  now  ?  " 

Colonel  Stuyvesant  Van  Epps  said  "  No "  again. 
Young  Jones  still  lacked  ancestry,  and  a  taste  for 
whiskey  and  four  aces  still  lurked  in  his  blood. 
Colonel  Stuyvesant  Van  Epps  would  not  consent. 
This  served  for  a  time  to  abate  the  bridal  prepara 
tions. 


Two  years  deserted  the  future  for  the  past.  A  great 
deal  of  water  will  run  under  a  bridge  in  two  years. 
Mary  Van  Epps  was  nineteen.  She  went  on  a  visit  to 
a  Trenton  relative.  Young  Jones  became  abundant  in 
Trenton  at  that  very  time.  They  took  in  a  parson 
while  on  a  stroll  one  day,  and  when  that  experienced 
divine  got  through  with  them  they  were  man  and  wife. 
They  wired  their  entangled  condition  to  Colonel 


294  SANDBURRS 

Stuyvesant  Van  Epps.  He  sent  them  a  message  of 
wrath. 

"  I  cast  Mary  off  for  ever !  Never  let  me  see  her  face 
again  !  " 

"  Very  well !  "  remarked  young  Jones  as  he  read 
the  wire  ;  "  I  shall  need  Mary  myself,  in  New  York. 
Casting  her  off,  therefore,  at  Albany,  cuts  no  great 
figure.  As  for  Mary's  face,  I  will  look  at  it  all  the 
more  to  make  up  for  her  brutal  dad's  abatement  of 
interest  therein." 

Then  he  kissed  Mary  as  if  the  feat  were  entirely 
fresh.  And  while  Mary  wept,  she  still  felt  very  happy. 
Next  they  came  to  a  modest  home  in  the  city. 

VI 

Two  years  more  trailed  the  otners  into  history. 
Young  Jones  was  held  a  fortunate  man.  His  work 
was  a  success.  Whiskey  and  poker  were  now  so  far 
astern  as  to  be  hull-down  in  the  horizon.  And  he 
loved  Mary  better  than  ever.  She  was  the  triumph  of 
his  life,  and  he  told  her  so  every  day. 

"  It  is  certainly  wonderful,"  he  said,  "  how  much 
more  beautiful  you  become  every  day." 

This  pleased  Mary  ;  and  while  her  heart  turned  to 
her  hard  old  father,  she  did  not  repent  that  episode  at 
Trenton,  which  changed  her  name  to  Jones. 

Once  a  month  Mary  faithfully  addressed  a  letter, 
new  and  fresh  each  time  with  the  love  that  fails  and 
fades  not,  to  "  Colonel  Stuyvesant  Van  Epps,  Albany, 
N.  Y."  And  once  a  month  Colonel  Stuyvesant  Van 
Epps  read  it,  gulped  a  little,  and  made  no  reply. 

"  I  will  never  see  her  again  !  "  Colonel  Stuyvesant 


CRIi:    OR    COFFIN?'' 


CRIB  OR  COFFIN?  295 

Van  Epps  remarked  to  himself  on  these  letter  occa 
sions. 

All  the 'time  he  knew  he  lived  for  nothing  else.  But 
he  thought  of  his  family  and  mustered  his  pride,  and 
of  course  became  a  limitless  fool  at  once,  as  do  those 
who  give  way  to  an  attack  of  pedigree. 

But  the  Jones  baby  was  born  ;  and  young  Jones 
concluded  to  try  his  hand  on  Colonel  Stuyvesant  Van 
Epps.  Mary  wanted  him  to  come,  and  that  settled 
the  whole  matter  so  far  as  young  Jones  was  concerned. 
In  his  new  victory  as  a  successful  father,  he  felt  that 
he  could  look  down  on  Colonel  Stuyvesant  Van  Epps. 
He  therefore  wrote  the  message  referred  to  in  our  first 
chapter  with  perfect  confidence,  that,  turn  as  matters 
might,  he  had  nothing  to  fear. 

"  The  past,  at  least,  is  secure  !  "  said  young  Jones  ; 
"  and,  come  what  may,  I  have  Mary  and  the  baby." 

Both  Mary  and  young  Jones,  however,  awaited  the 
returns  from  Albany  with  anxiety ; — Mary,  because  she 
loved  her  father  and  mourned  for  his  old  face,  and 
young  Jones  because  he  loved  Mary.  They  were  re 
lieved  when  the  bell  rang  at  7  P.  M.,  and  a  bicycle  boy 
handed  in  a  yellow  paper,  which  read  :  "  Will  be  there 
to-morrow  on  the  8:30. — Stuyvesant  Van  Epps." 

Mary  was  all  gladness.  Young  Jones  was  calm,  but 
gave  way  sufficiently  to  say : 

"  Mary,  we  will  call  the  cub  '  Stuyvesant  Van  Epps 
Jones/  " 

VII 

YOUNG  Jones  met  Colonel  Stuyvesant  Van  Epps  at 
the  Forty-Second  Street  station.  The  old  gentleman 
had  been  torn  by  doubts  and  grievous  misgivings  all 


296  SANDBURRS 

the  way  down.  What  did  young  Jones'  ambiguous 
message  mean  ?  Was  Mary  dead  ?  Was  he  bound  to 
a  funeral?  or  a  christening?  Colonel  Stuyvesant  Van 
Epps  knew  that  something  tremendous  had  happened. 
But  what  ? 

Colonel  Stuyvesant  Van  Epps  walked  up  to  young 
Jones  at  the  station,  and  without  pausing  to  greet 
him,  remarked  : 

"Crib  or  coffin?" 

"  Crib  !  "  said  young  Jones. 

Then  Colonel  Stuyvesant  Van  Epps  fell  into  a  storm 
of  tears,  and  began  to  shake  young  Jones  by  the  hand 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life. 


VIII 

THE  three  happiest  people  in  the  world  that  night 
were  Colonel  Stuyvesant  Van  Epps,  Mary  and  young 
Jones.  The  baby  was  the  one  member  of  the  family 
who  did  not  give  way  to  emotion.  He  received  his 
grandfather  with  a  stolid  phlegm  which  became  a 
Van  Epps. 

"And  his  name  is  Stuyvesant  Van  Epps  Jones,"  said 
Mary. 

Colonel  Stuyvesant  Van  Epps  kissed  Mary  again  at 
this  cheering  news,  and  shook  hands  with  young  Jones 
for  the  second  time  in  his  life. 

That  is  all  there  is  to  a  very  true  story.  Colonel 
Stuyvesant  Van  Epps  lives  now  in  New  York  City,  and 
Albany  is  shy  a  second  citizen.  Mary  is  happy,  young 
Jones  feels  like  a  conqueror,  and  the  infant,  Stuyves 
ant  Van  Epps  Jones,  beneath  the  eye  of  his  grandsire, 
waxes  apace. 


OHIO  DAYS 


AT  THE  LEES 

"AUNT  ANN,  be  we  goin'  to  thespellin'  to-night  at 
the  Block  schoolhouse  ?  " 

Jim  Lee  always  called  his  wife  "Aunt  Ann."  So 
did  everybody  except  her  daughter  Lydia.  She  called 
Aunt  Ann  "  Mother."  But  to  Jim  Lee  and  the  other 
inhabitants  of  Stowe  Township,  she  was  "  Aunt  Ann 
Lee." 

As  Jim  Lee  asked  Aunt  Ann  the  question,  he  threw 
down  the  armful  of  maple  wood  and  retreated  to  the 
back  door  to  stamp  the  snow  off  his  boots. 

'*  I  want  to  know,"  he  said,  "  so's  to  do  the  chores 
in  time." 

Aunt  Ann  was  chopping  mince-meat.  She  was  a 
clean,  beautiful  woman  of  the  buxom  sort.  Her  eyes 
were  very  blue,  while  her  hair  was  very  black  with  not 
a  strand  of  silver,  for  all  her  forty-seven  years.  Jim 
Lee  held  Aunt  Ann  in  great  respect.  Aunt  Ann  on 
her  part  was  a  tender  soul  and  true,  although  Jim  Lee 
had  found  her  quite  firm  at  times. 

"  Now  and  then  she's  a  morsel  hard  on  the  bit,"  said 
Jim  Lee,  descriptively. 

Perhaps  the  two  old-maid  Spranglers  meant  the  same 
thing  when  they  said  :  "  There  never  was  a  body  with 

297 


298  SANDBURRS 

blue  eyes  and  black  hair  who  didn't  have  the  sm 
in  'em." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Aunt  Ann  to  Jim  Lee's  questioi 
"yes,  of  course  we'll  go.  I've  got  to  see  Mrs.  Au 
about  some  rag  carpets  she's  weavin'  for  me,  and  she 
be  there.  Better  get  the  Morgan  colt  and  the  cutt 
ready,  father  ;  we'll  go  in  that." 

"  That'll  only  hold  two,"  said  Jim  Lee.  "  How 
Lide  goin'  to  go?  " 

"  Lide's  goin'  with  Ed  Church.  She's  over  to  Jenn 
Ruple's  now  ;  she  and  Jen  are  goin*  to  choose  up  f< 
the  spellin'  bee.  Bnt  she'll  be  back  in  time,  and  E 
Church  is  comin'  for  her  at  half-past  seven." 

Jim  Lee's  face  showed  that  he  didn't  like  Ed  Churc 
He  said  nothing  for  five  minutes,  and  pulling  off  h 
kip-skin  boots  began  to  give  them  a  coat  of  tallow. 

"Where's  Ezra?"  at  last  he  asked.  Ezra  was  tl 
heir  of  the  house  of  Lee.  His  age  was  eleven  ;  Lie 
was  twenty. 

"  Ezra's  down  cellar  sortin'  over  that  bin  of  peac 
blows,"  said  Aunt  Ann,  busy  with  her  mince-me; 
and  chopping-bowl ;  "  they'd  started  to  rot." 

"  I  wanted  to  send  him  to  the  Corners  for  tl 
mail,"  suggested  Jim  Lee,  as  he  kneaded  the  war: 
tallow  into  the  instep  of  his  boot  to  soften  tl: 
leather. 

"You'd  better  hitch  up  the  colt  a  mite  early,"  a: 
swered  Aunt  Ann,  "  and  go  to  the  Corners  before  \A 
start  to  the  spellin'.  Ezra's  got  to  churn  as  soon  ; 
he's  done  the  peachblows." 

There  was  another  pause.  Jim  Lee  softly  drew  c 
his  freshly  tallowed  boots,  and  then  stood  up  an 
tried  them  by  raising  his  heels  one  after  the  othe 


"YOLTD   BETTER    HITCH    UP    THE    COLT    A    MITE    EARLY. — J'age   298. 


OHIO  DAYS  299 

bending  the  boots  at  the  toes  as  if  testing  a  couple 
of  Damascus  sword  blades. 

"  I  don't  like  this  here  Ed  Church  sparkin'  our  Lide," 
remarked  Jim  Lee  at  last ;  "  bimeby  they'll  want  to 
get  married." 

"  Father  !  "  said  Aunt  Ann,  raising  her  blue  eyes  with 
a  look  of  cold  criticism  from  the  mince-meat  she  was 
massacring. 

"  Has  he  asked  Lide  yet  ?  "  said  Jim  Lee. 

"  No,  he  ain't,"  replied  Aunt  Ann,  "  but  he's  goin' 
to." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  How  do  I  know?"  repeated  Aunt  Ann,  as  she  set 
the  chopping-bowl  on  the  kitchen  table,  and  turned  to 
put  a  few  select  sticks  of  maple  into  the  oven  to  the 
end  that  they  become  kiln-dried  and  highly  inflam 
mable  ;  "  how  do  I  know  Ed  Church  is  goin'  to  marry 
Lide?  Humph!  I  can  see  it." 

"  I'm  goin'  to  put  a  stop  to  it,"  said  Jim  Lee. 
"  This  Church  boy  is  goin'  to  keep  away  from  Lide." 

"  Father,  you're  goin'  to  do  nothing  of  the  kind," 
and  Aunt  Ann's  eyes  began  to  sparkle.  "  You 
can  run  the  farm  and  Ezra,  father  ;  I'll  run  Lide  and 
the  house.  The  only  person  who's  goin'  to  have  a 
syllable  to  say  about  Lide's  marryin'  when  the  time 
comes,  is  Lide  herself.  If  she  wants  Ed  Church  she's 
goin'  to  have  him." 

"  Aunt  Ann,  I'm  s'prised  at  you  upholdin'  for  this 
Church  boy  !  "  Jim  Lee  threw  into  his  tone  a  strain 
of  strong  reproof.  "  Ed  Church  drinks." 

"  Ed  Church  don't  drink,"  retorted  Aunt  Ann 
sharply. 

"  How  about  that  time  two  years  ago  last  summer? 


300  SANDBURRS 

Waren't    Ed    Church    drunk    over   at    the     Royalton 
Fair?" 

"  Yes,  he  was,"  answered  Aunt  Ann,  "  and  that's 
the  only  time.  But  so  was  my  father  drunk  once  at  a 
barn-raisin'  when  he  was  a  boy,  for  I've  heerd  him  tell 
it ;  and  1  guess  my  father,  William  H.  Pickering,  was 
as  good  as  any  Lee  who  ever  greased  his  boots.  One 
swallow  don't  make  a  summer,  and  one  drunk  don't 
make  a  drunkard.  Ed  Church  told  me  himself  that  he 
ain't  took  a  drop  since." 

"  I'm  goin'  to  break  up  this  nonsense  between  him 
and  Lide,  at  any  rate,"  said  Jim  Lee.  His  mood  was 
dogged,  and  it  served  to  irritate  Aunt  Ann. 

"  All  you've  got  ag'inst  Ed  Church,  father,"  said 
Aunt  Ann,  "  is  that  his  father  voted  ag'in  you  for 
pathmaster,  and  I'm  glad  he  did.  What  under  the 
sun  you  ever  wanted  to  be  pathmaster  for,  and  go 
about  ploughin*  up  good  roads  to  make  'em  bad,  was 
more'n  I  could  see.  I'm  glad  you  was  beat." 

"  I'm  goin'  to  stop  this  Church  boy  hangin'  'round 
Lide,  jest  the  same,"  was  the  closing  remark  of  Jim 
Lee.  At  this  point  he  went  out  to  the  barn  to  put 
some  straw  in  the  cutter  and  harness  the  Morgan  colt. 
Aunt  Ann  turned  again  to  her  duties. 

"  Father  is  so  exasperatin',"  remarked  Aunt  Ann,  as 
she  poured  some  boiling  water  over  a  dozen  slices  of 
salt  pork  to  "  freshen  it,"  in  the  line  of  preparing  them 
for  the  evening  frying-pan.  "  He'll  find  out,  though, 
that  I'll  have  a  tolerable  lot  to  say  about  Lide's  mar- 
ryin'." 


OHIO  DAYS  301 

II 

ED   CHURCH    AND   LIDE 

AT  half-past  seven,  Ed  Church  swung  into  Jim  Lee's 
yard,  with  a  horse  all  bells,  and  a  cutter  a  billow  of 
buffalo  robes.  He  did  not  dare  leave  Grey  Eagle,  his 
pet  colt,  for  Grey  Eagle  was  restless  with  the  wintry 
evening  air  and  wanted  to  go.  So  Ed  Church  notified 
Lide  of  his  coming  by  shouting,  "  House ! "  with  a 
great  voice. 

Grey  Eagle  made  a  plunge  at  the  sound,  but  was 
brought  up  by  the  bit. 

"  How'dy  do,  Ed,"  said  Lide,  as  she  came  out  the 
side  door.  She  looked  rosy  and  pretty  with  her 
muskrat  muff  and  cape. 

"  Hello,  Lide,"  said  Ed.  "You'll  have  to  scramble 
in  yourself.  I  can  hardly  hold  the  colt  this  weather, 
when  he  don't  have  nothin'  to  do  but  eat." 

Lide  scrambled  in.  As  Ed  Church  stood  up  in  the 
cutter  to  allow  Lide  a  chance  to  be  seated,  her  face 
came  close  to  his.  Taking  his  eyes  from  Grey  Eagle 
for  the  mere  fraction  of  a  second,  he  kissed  her  dexter 
ously.  Lide  received  the  caress  with  the  most  admi 
rable  composure,  and  Ed  Church  himself  did  not  act  as 
if  the  idea  was  a  discovery  or  the  experiment  new. 

"  Let  him  out,  Ed  ! "  said  Lide,  when  they  were 
well  into  the  road. 

There  was  a  foot  of  snow  on  the  ground.  The  fence 
corners  showed  great  drifts,  while  each  rail  of  the 
fence  had  a  ruffle  of  its  own  of  cold,  white  snow.  As 
far  as  one  could  see  in  the  moonlight,  the  fields  to  each 
side  were  like  milk.  In  the  background  stood  the  grey 


302  OHIO  DAYS 

woods  laced  against  the  sky.  Here  and  there  a  lamp 
shone  in  a  neighbour's  window  like  an  eye  of  fire. 

Stowe  Township  was  out  that  night.  The  steady 
beat  of  the  bells  could  be  heard  ahead  and  behind.  Ed 
Church  sent  Grey  Eagle  forward  with  long  strides,  the 
cutter  following  over  the  hard,  packed  snow  with  no 
more  of  resistance  than  a  feather.  Lide  held  her  muff 
to  her  face,  so  that  she  might  open  her  mouth  to  talk 
without  catching  any  of  the  flying  snowballs  from  Grey 
Eagle's  nervous  hoofs. 

"  It'll  be  a  big  spellin'-school  to-night,"  said 
Lide. 

"  Yes,  I  guess  it  will,"  replied  Ed.  "  I  hear  folks 
are  comin'  clear  from  Hammond  Corners." 

"  If  that  Gentry  girl  comes,"  said  Lide,  "  mind ! 
you're  not  to  speak  to  her,  Ed.  If  you  do,  you  can 
go  home  alone." 

Ed  grinned  with  an  air  of  pleased  superiority. 

"  Get  up,"  he  said  to  Grey  Eagle.  Then  to  Lide : 
"Goon!  You're  jealous !" 

"  No,  I  ain't  !  "  said  Lide,  with  a  lofty  intonation. 
"  Speak  to  her  if  you  want  to  !  What  do  I  care  !  " 

"  I  won't  speak  to  her,  Lide." 

Ed  looked  at  his  sweetheart  to  see  how  she  received 
his  submission.  As  the  road  was  level  and  straight  at 
this  point,  and  Grey  Eagle  had  worn  away  the  wire 
edge  of  his  appetite  to  "  go,"  Ed  put  his  face  in  behind 
the  musk  rat  muff  and  kissed  Lide  again.  The  victim 
abetted  the  outrage. 

"  I  saw  ye  !  "  yelled  a  happy  voice  behind.  It  was 
Ben  Francis  with  Jennie  Ruple.  They  also  were 
enthroned  in  a  cutter. 

"What  if  you  did  ?  "  retorted  Lide  with  a  toss. 


OHIO  DAYS  303 

*'  Do  it  again  if  I  want  to ! "  shouted  Ed  Church 
with  much  joyous  hardihood. 

"  I  never  asked  you  to  marry  me  yet,  did  I,  Lide  ?  " 
observed  Ed  Church,  after  two  minutes  of  silence. 

"No,  you  didn't,"  said  Lide  from  behind  the  musk- 
rat  muff.  The  words  would  have  sounded  hard,  if  it 
were  not  for  the  sudden  soft  sweetness  of  the  voice, 
which  was  half  a  whisper. 

"  Well,  I'll  do  it  now,"  said  Ed,  with  much  resolu 
tion,  but  a  little  shake  in  the  tone.  "  You'll  marry 
me,  Lide,  when  we  get  ready?  " 

"  Ed,  what  do  you  think  father'll  say  ?" 

Ed  Church  knew  Lide's  father  found  no  joy  in  him. 
The  next  time  his  voice  took  on  a  moody,  half-sullen 
sound. 

"  Don't  care  what  he  says  !  I  ain't  marryin'  the  hull 
Lee  family." 

"  But  s'pose  he  says  we  can't  ?  " 

"  If  he  does,  I'll  run  away  with  you,  Lide,*'  and  Ed 
Church's  tones  were  touched  with  storm.  "  I'm  goin* 
to  marry  you  even  if  all  the  Lees  in  the  state  stand  in 
the  way  !  " 

Lide  crowded  a  bit  closer  to  Ed  at  this,  and,  holding 
the  muskrat  muff  against  her  face  to  keep  her  nose  from 
getting  red,  said  nothing.  Lide  was  thinking  what  a 
noble  fellow  Ed  was,  and  how  much  she  admired  him. 

Ill 

THE   SPELLING   SCHOOL 

THE  Block  schoolhouse  was  crowded.  Lide  and 
Ed  made  their  way  toward  the  back  benches.  Jim 
Lee  spoke  to  his  daughter  and  growled  gruffly  at  Ed. 


304  SANDBURRS 

The  latter  half  growled  back.  Aunt  Ann  was  all 
smiles  and  approval  of  Ed.  At  this,  Ed  thought  her 
the  best  woman  on  earth  except  his  own  mother,  and 
mentally  put  her  next  that  excellent  old  lady  in  his 
heart. 

It  was  a  Mr.  Parker  who  taught  at  the  Block  school- 
house.  At  8  o'clock  he  rapped  on  the  teacher's  desk 
with  a  ruler,  and  everybody  who  was  standing  up 
hunted  for  a  seat.  Those  who  could  find  none — they 
were  all  young  men  and  boys — crouched  down  along 
the  walls  of  the  big  school-room  and  made  seats  of 
their  heels.  Mr.  Parker  came  down  from  his  desk  and 
opened  the  stove  door  with  the  end  of  the  ruler.  The 
stove — a  long-bodied  air-tight — was  raging  red  hot 
from  the  four-foot  wood  blazing  in  its  interior.  When 
the  door  was  opened  the  heat  almost  singed  Mr.  Park 
er's  eyebrows.  At  this  he  started  back  nervously, 
and  Ben  Weld  and  Will  Jenkins,  two  very  small  boys, 
laughed.  The  stove  on  its  part  began  to  cool  off  and 
the  cherry  colour  faded  from  its  hot  sides,  leaving 
them  brown  and  rusty. 

"  Lydia  Lee  and  Jennie  Ruple  have  been  selected  to 
choose  sides  for  the  spelling  contest,"  said  Mr.  Parker. 

Lide  and  Jennie  seated  themselves  side  by  side  on 
the  bench  which  ran  along  the  rear  of  the  room.  It 
was  Lide's  first  choice. 

"  Ed  Church,"  called  Lide  in  a  low  voice. 

Several  young  persons  giggled,  while  Ed,  blushing 
deeply  to  have  his  sweetheart's  preference  thus  forced 
into  prominence,  blundered  along  the  aisle  and  sat 
down  by  Lide.  It  was  Jennie's  choice.  Jennie  se 
lected  Ben  Francis. 

"  Of  course  !  "  said  Ada  Farr  in  a  loud  whisper  to 


OHIO  DAYS  305 

Myrtle  Jones,  "  they'd  choose  their  beaux  first,  so  as 
to  sit  by  'em." 

There  was  no  gainsaying  the  Farr  girl's  statement. 
The  "  choosing  up,"  however,  went  on.  At  last  every 
body,  young  and  old,  from  the  grey-headed  grandpa  to 
the  five-year-old  just  sent  to  his  first  school  that  winter, 
had  been  chosen  by  Lide  or  Jennie.  Then  Mr.  Parker 
began  to  give  out  the  words. 

Ed  Church  failed  on  the  first  word.  It  was  "  em 
phasis."  Ed  thought  there  was  an  "  f "  in  it.  He 
straightway  sat  down  and  spelled  no  more  that  night. 
Lide  made  a  better  showing,  and  lasted  through  five 
words.  She  tripped  on  "  suet  "  upon  which  she  con 
ferred  an  "  i."  Lide  then  joined  Ed  among  the  silenced 
ones. 

"  Lide  Lee  missed  on  purpose,"  whispered  the  Farr 
girl  to  her  neighbour  Myrtle  Jones,  "  so  she  could  sit 
and  talk  with  Ed/' 

Jim  Lee  spelled  well,  but  fell  a  prey  to  "  mous 
tache." 

At  last  only  three  were  left  standing — Nellie  Brad- 
dock,  a  girl  from  Hammond  Corners,  and  Aunt  Ann. 
Mr.  Parker  turned  over  to  the  back  part  of  the  spelling 
book  where  the  hard  words  lived.  Nellie  Braddock 
fell  before  "  umbrageous." 

The  struggle  between  the  girl  from  Hammond 
Corners  and  Aunt  Ann  was  a  battle  of  the  giantesses. 
The  girl  from  Hammond  Corners  was  the  champion 
speller  of  her  region,  and  had  spelled  down  every 
school  so  far  that  winter.  The  interest  was  intense,  as 
first  to  Aunt  Ann  and  then  to  the  girl  from  Hammond 
Corners,  Mr.  Parker  put  out: 

"  Fantasy." 

20 


306  SANDBURRS 

"  Autobiographer." 

"  Thaumaturgic." 

"  Cosmography." 

At  last  the  girl  from  Hammond  Corners  tripped  on : 

"  Sibylline." 

She  made  it  "  syb."  Mr.  Parker  had  to  show  her 
the  spelling  book  to  convince  the  girl  from  Hammond 
Corners  that  she  had  missed.  She  glanced  in  the 
spelling  book  where  Mr.  Parker's  finger  pointed,  and 
then  burst  into  tears.  At  this  an  unknown  young  man, 
presumably  from  Hammond  Corners,  got  up  and  ex 
citedly  declared  the  book  to  be  wrong.  Nobody  took 
any  notice  of  him,  however,  and  Aunt  Ann  Lee  was 
named  the  victor.  She  had  spelled  down  the  school. 

IV 

THE  FIGHT 

ED  CHURCH  left  Lide  talking  with  the  girls  in  the 
schoolhouse  while  he  went  back  to  the  waggon  shed  to 
get  Grey  Eagle  and  bring  him  and  the  cutter  to  the 
door.  As  Ed  was  in  the  entry  of  the  schoolhouse  he 
was  stopped  by  little  Joe  Barnes. 

"  Say  !  Fan  Brown's  out  there  waitin'  for  you." 

"What  about  Fan  Brown?"  asked  Ed  Church. 

Fan  Brown  was  the  bully  of  Hinckley.  He  boasted 
that  he  could  thrash  any  man  between  Bath  Lakes  and 
the  Hinckley  Ridge. 

"  He  says  he's  goin'  to  wallop  you  for  shootin'  his 
dawg  last  summer,"  said  little  Joe  Barnes. 

"  Joe,  will  you  do  something  for  me?  "  asked  Ed. 

"Yep!" 

"You  go  and  tell  Lide  Lee  in  there  that   I'm  goin' 


OHIO  DAYS  307 

over  to  Square  Chanler's  to  get  a  neck-yoke  he  borrowed 
and  I'll  be  right  back.  Tell  her  to  wait  in  the  school- 
house  till  I  come." 

"  He's  afraid  of  Fan  Brown  and  is  runnin'  over  to 
Square  Chanler's  to  get  the  constable,"  said  little  Joe 
Barnes  to  himself.  For  this  he  despised  Ed  Church 
very  much,  but  went  in  and  delivered  the  message. 

"  All  right !  "  said  Lide,  and  then  went  on  gossip 
ing  with  the  girls. 

Ed  Church  stepped  out  of  the  schoolhouse  and 
started  for  the  horse-sheds. 

He  noticed  a  knot  of  men  standing  at  the  rear  corner 
of  the  building ;  among  them  he  discerned  the  stocky, 
bull-necked  bully  of  Hinckley,  Fan  Brown. 

"  Here  he  comes  now  !  "  said  one,  as  Ed  approached. 

"  Let  him  come  !  "  gritted  the  bully  ;  "  I'll  fix  him  ! 
I'll  show  him  whose  dog  he's  been  shootin  !  As  fine  a 
coon  dog,  boys,  as  ever  went  into  a  corn  field.  He 
shot  him,  and  I  ain't  goin'  back  to  Hinckley  till  I  mash 
his  face." 

"  What's  the  row  here  ?  "  said  Ed  Church,  walking 
straight  to  the  little  huddle  about  Fan  Brown.  His 
tones  were  brittle  and  bold  ;  a  note  of  ready  war  ran 
through  them.  Not  at  all  the  voice  in  which  he  talked 
to  Lide.  "  I  understand  somebody's  lookin'  for  me. 
Who  is  it?" 

"  It's  me,  by  G — d  !  You  killed  my  dog  last  summer, 
and  I'm  goin' " 

"  No,  you  ain't,"  said  Ed,  interrupting ;  "  you  ain't 
goin'  to  do  a  thing.  You  may  be  the  bully  of  Hinck 
ley,  Fan  Brown,  but  you  can't  scare  me.  Your  dog 
was  killin'  sheep ;  he  was  a  good  deal  like  you  ;  but 
bein'  a  dog  I  could  shoot  him." 


308  SANDBURRS 

"  Yes,  and  I  ain't  goin'  back  to  Hinckley  until  I 
maul  you  so  you  won't  shoot  another  dog  as  long  as 
you  live." 

"  Enough  said  !  "  replied  Ed,  "  come  right  down  in 
the  hollow  back  of  the  horse  sheds,  where  the  folks 
won't  see,  and  do  it." 

Just  then  a  small,  meagre  man  approached.  He 
walked  with  a  lounging  gait,  and  when  he  spoke  he 
had  a  thin,  mealy  voice. 

"  What's  the  matter  here  ?  "  piped  the  meagre  little 
man. 

His  name  was  Dick  Bond.  He  was  renowned  widely 
as  a  wrestler.  Gladiators  had  come  from  far  and  near, 
and  at  town  meetings  and  barn  raisings,  wrestled  with 
little  Dick  Bond.  Where  a  hundred  tried  not  one 
succeeded. 

He  had  not  lost  a  "  fall "  for  four  years.  His 
skill  had  given  birth  to  a  half  proverb,  and  when  some 
body  said  he  would  do  something,  and  somebody  else 
doubted  it,  the  latter  would  observe  with  laughing 
scorn  :  "  Yes ;  you'll  do  it  when  somebody  throws 
Dick  Bond." 

Such  was  the  fell  repute  of  this  invincible  little  man 
that  when  his  shrill,  light  voice  made  the  inquiry  chron 
icled,  a  silence  fell  on  the  crowd  and  no  one  answered. 

"  Who's  goin'  to  fight  ?  "  asked  Dick  Bond  more 
pointedly. 

"  I'm  goin'  to  fight  Fan  Brown,"  said  Ed. 

There  was  a  load  of  ferocity  in  the  way  he  said  it, 
which  showed  that  Ed,  himself,  had  a  latent  hunger 
for  battle. 

"  I  guess  I'll  go  'long  and  see  it,"  said  Dick  Bond 
pipingly. 


•IT  DIDN'T  LAST  TUN  MINUTES." — Pagt 


OHIO  DAYS  309 

"  How  do  you  want  to  fight?"  asked  Ed  of  Fan 
Brown  when  each  had  buttoned  up  his  coat  tight  to  the 
chin.  "  Stand  up,  or  rough  and  tumble?" 

"  Rough  and  tumble,"  said  Fan  Brown  savagely. 

"All  right!" 

"  Now,  boys,"  said  Dick  Bond  when  all  was  ready,"  I'll 
give  the  word  and  then  you're  goin'  to  fight  until  one 
of  you  says  'enough.'  And  remember  !  there's  no  bitin' 
no  gougin',  no  scratchin'." 

"  Bitin'  goes  ?  "  declared  Fan  Brown,  in  a  fashion  of 
savage  interrogatory. 

"  Bitin'  don't  go  ! "  replied  the  lean  little  referee, 
"  and  if  you  offer  to  bite  or  gouge,  Fan  Brown,  I'll 
break  your  neck.  You'll  never  go  back  to  Hinckley 
short  of  being  carried  in  a  blanket." 

The  battle  was  brief  and  bloody.  It  didn't  last  ten 
minutes.  When  it  was  over,  Ed  Church,  bleeding,  but 
victorious,  walked  back  to  the  sheds  to  get  Grey  Eagle. 
Fan  Brown  was  unable  to  rise  from  the  snow  without 
help.  His  face  was  beaten  badly,  and  he  was  a 
thoroughly  whipped  person.  Dick  Bond  expressed 
great  satisfaction,  and  in  his  high  voice  said  it  was  a 
splendid  fight. 

"  But,  Brown,"  said  Dick  Bond  to  the  beaten  one,  "  I 
can't  see  how  you  got  it  into  your  head  you  could  lick 
Ed  Church.  Why,  man  !  he  was  all  over  you  like  a 
panther." 

The  news  of  the  fight  ran  like  wildfire.  Everybody 
knew  of  it  before  an  hour  passed.  It  was  a  source 
of  general  satisfaction  that  Ed  Church  had  whipped 
Fan  Brown,  the  Hinckley  bully,  yet  no  one  failed  to 
stamp  the  whole  proceeding  as  disgraceful ;  that  is, 
among  the  older  men  at  least. 


3io  SANDBURRS 

Lide,  however,  when  she  heard  of  the  valour  of  her 
lover  felt  a  great  tenderness  for  him,  and  was  never 
kinder  than  when  they  drove  Grey  Eagle  back  from 
the  Block  schoolhouse  spelling-bee  that  crisp  winter 
night. 

V 

JIM   LEE   INTERFERES 

"  MOTHER,"  sobbed  Lide,  as  she  threw  herself  down 
on  the  chintz  lounge  without  pausing  to  take  off  her 
hat  or  cape,  "  father  has  just  told  Ed  never  to  come 
to  the  house  nor  speak  to  me  again." 

Jim  Lee  and  Aunt  Ann  got  home  before  the 
lovers.  The  news  of  the  broil  overtook  them,  however. 
Jim  Lee  declared  it  a  scandal  and  a  scorn. 

"  Now  you  see,"  he  said  to  Aunt  Ann,  **  what  sort 
of  ruffian  the  Church  boy  is  !  " 

"  Well,  I'm  glad  he  whipped  that  miserable  Fan 
Brown,"  said  Aunt  Ann.  "  He's  done  nothin'  for  ten 
years  but  come  over  here  to  Stowe  Township  and  raise 
a  fuss.  I'm  glad  somebody's  at  last  spunked  up  and 
thrashed  him.  I'd  done  it  years  ago  if  I  had  been  a 
man." 

"Aunt  Ann  Lee!  "  said  Jim  Lee,  hitting  the  Mor 
gan  colt  a  blow  with  the  whip  which  set  that  sprightly 
animal  almost  astride  the  thills — "  Aunt  Ann,  do 
you  tell  me  you  approve  of  Ed  Church  lickin'  Fan 
Brown  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  do,"  retorted  Aunt  Ann,  stoutly,  "and  so 
will  Lide.  If  you  imagine,  father,  a  woman  finds  fault 
with  a  man  because  he'll  fight  other  men  you  don't 
know  the  sex." 

Jim  Lee  moaned.     Absolutely  !  for  the  first  time  in 


OHIO  DAYS  311 

his  life  Aunt  Ann  had  shocked  him.  Not  another 
word  was  spoken  by  Jim  Lee  all  the  way  home. 

Aunt  Ann  went  into  the  house  when  they  arrived, 
while  Jim  Lee  remained  to  put  up  the  Morgan  colt. 
He  was  busy  in  the  barn  when  Ed  and  Lide  drove  into 
the  yard. 

"  Father  came  up  to  Ed,"  sobbed  Lide,  as  she  lay  on 
the  lounge,  "  and  called  him  a  brawler  and  a  drunkard, 
and  said  he'd  got  to  keep  away  from  me." 

"What  did  Ed  say?"  asked  Aunt  Ann,  as  she  sat 
down  by  her  daughter  and  began,  with  kind  hands,  to 
take  off  her  hat  and  cape.  Every  touch  was  full  of 
motherly  love  and  tenderness. 

"  Oh  !  Ed  didn't  say  much,"  said  Lide,  giving  way 
to  long-drawn  sighs ;  a  fashion  of  dead  swell  following 
the  storm  of  sobs.  "  He  said  he'd  marry  me  whether 
father  was  willing  or  not.  Then  he  drove  away." 

Aunt  Ann  smiled. 

"  I  guess  Ed  Church  is  pretty  high  strung,"  said 
Aunt  Ann,  "  but  that  won't  hurt  him  any." 

Jim  Lee  came  in  at  that  moment,  looking  a  bit  sheep 
ish  and  guilty  ;  but  over  it  all  an  atmosphere  of  victory. 

"  That  Church  boy  will  stay  away  now,  I  guess ! " 
said  Jim  Lee,  as  he  got  the  bootjack  and  began  pulling 
off  his  boots. 

"  Jim  Lee,  you're  an  awful  fool ! "  observed  Aunt 
Ann  with  the  air  of  a  sibyl  settling  all  things.  "  You're 
the  biggest  numbskull  in  Stowe  Township  !  " 

"  Why  ?"  asked  Jim  Lee. 

He  was  disturbed  because  Aunt  Ann  addressed  him 
by  his  full  name.  Experience  had  taught  him  that  de 
feat  ever  followed  hard  on  the  heels  of  his  full  name, 
when  Aunt  Ann  made  use  of  it. 


312  SANDBURRS 

"  Never  mind  why  !  "  said  Aunt  Ann. 

And  not  another  word  could  Jim  Lee  get  from  her. 

VI 

THEY  DECORATE 

IT  was  a  month  after  the  spelling-school.  Stowe 
Township  was  decorating  the  Church  for  Christmas. 
For  time  out  of  mind  Stowe  Township  had  had  a 
Christmas  tree  at  the  Church,  and  everybody,  rich  or 
poor,  high  or  low,  young  or  old,  great  or  small,  got  a 
present  if  it  were  nothing  but  a  gauze  stocking  full  of 
painted  popcorn. 

Aunt  Ann,  as  usual,  was  at  the  head  of  the  decorat 
ing  committee.  The  Church  was  full  of  long  strings  of 
evergreen,  which  Aunt  Ann's  satellites  were  festooning 
about  the  walls,  and  to  that  end  there  was  much  climb 
ing  of  step-ladders,  much  standing  on  tip-toe,  much 
pounding  of  thumbs  with  caitiff  tack-hammers,  vilely 
wielded  by  girlish  hands.  Occasionally  some  fair  step- 
ladder  maid  gave  the  public  a  glimpse  of  a  well-filled 
woollen  stocking  as  she  went  up  and  down,  or  stood  on 
her  toes  on  the  top  step.  At  this,  the  young  men 
present  always  blushed,  while  the  maidens  tittered. 
Most  people  don't  know  it,  but  the  male  of  our  species 
is  more  modest,  more  easily  embarrassed,  than  the 
female. 

The  Christmas  tree  had  just  arrived.  It  had  been 
contributed  by  "  Square  "  Chanler.  The  tree  was  a 
noble  hemlock ;  thick  and  feathery  of  bough,  perfect 
of  general  outline.  Old  Curl,  the  Rip  Van  Winkle  of 
Stowe,  had  cut  it  down  and  hauled  it  to  the  church  on 
"  Square  "  Chanler's  bob-sleds.  All  the  smallfry  of  the 


OHIO  DAYS  313 

Corners  had  gone  with  Old  Curl  after  the  Christmas 
tree,  and  were  faithful  to  him  to  the  last.  Every  one 
of  them  was  clamorously  forward  in  unloading  the 
tree  and  getting  it  into  the  Church. 

Then  it  was  taken  charge  of  by  Aunt  Ann,  who  put 
the  smallfry  to  flight.  They  were  to  be  beneficiaries 
of  the  tree,  and  it  was  held  that  their  joy  would  be  en 
hanced  if  they  were  not  allowed  to  remain  while  the 
tree  was  decorated,  and  were  debarred  all  sight  thereof 
until  Christmas  Eve,  when  the  presents  would  be  cut 
from  the  boughs  and  bestowed  upon  their  owners. 

One  little  boy  had  a  cold,  and  Aunt  Ann  let  him  re 
main  in  the  Church.  This  little  boy  perched  himself 
in  a  window  where  his  fellows  outside  might  see 
and  envy  him.  There  was  a  three-cornered  hole  in  the 
window  pane  near  him,  and  the  little  boy  was  wont 
every  few  moments  to  place  his  mouth  to  this  crevice 
and  say  to  the  boys  outside  : 

"  My !  but  you  ought  to  see  what  Aunt  Ann's  tyin' 
on  the  tree  now !  " 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  would  chorus  the  outside  boys. 

"  Can't  tell  you  !  " 

The  boy  with  the  cold  became  the  most  unpopular 
child  in  Stowe  Township,  and  several  of  his  fellows 
outside  in  their  agony  threatened  him  with  personal 
violence. 

"  I'll  lick  you  when  I  ketch  you  !  "  shouted  children 
in  the  rabble  rout  to  the  lucky  child  with  the  cold. 

"  I  don't  care  !  "  said  the  child  inside,  "  you  just 
ought  to  see  the  tree  now  !  " 

Lide  Lee  was  aiding  the  others  to  festoon  the 
church.  Under  the  maternal  direction  she  was  fitting 
tawdry  little  wax  candles  among  the  branches  of  the 


3H  SANDBURRS 

Christmas  tree,  and  tying  on  Barlow  knives  for  all  the 
little  boys,  and  "  Housewives  "  for  all  the  little  girls. 

Lide  had  not  seen  Ed  save  once  since  the  spelling- 
school,  and  then  she  met  him  in  the  village  drug-store 
by  chance.  But  they  wrote  to  each  other,  and  some 
progress  in  this  way  had  been  made  toward  an  elope 
ment  which  was  scheduled  for  the  coming  Spring. 
Aunt  Ann  in  the  depths  of  her  sagacity,  suspected  the 
arrangement,  but  it  gave  her  no  alarm.  As  for  Jim 
Lee,  so  fatuous  was  he  that  he  believed  he  had  ended 
all  ties  between  his  daughter  and  Ed  Church. 

While  decorations  were  in  progress  in  the  church, 
Jim  Lee  suddenly  drove  up. 

"Aunt  Ann,"  said  Jim  Lee,  after  pausing  to  admire 
the  garish  display,  "  Aunt  Ann,  I've  just  got  a  line 
from  Ludlow,  and  there's  goin'  to  be  a  special  meetin' 
of  the  board  of  directors  of  our  Ice  Company,  and  I've 
got  to  mosey  into  the  city." 

Jim  Lee  had  an  air  of  importance.  He  liked  to  ap 
pear  before  Aunt  Ann  in  the  attitude  of  a  much-sought- 
for  man  of  business. 

"  Pshaw  !  father,  that's  too  bad !  "  said  Aunt  Ann. 
"  Can't  you  be  back  by  Christmas  Eve  ?  " 

u  No  ;  Christmas  Eve  is  only  day  after  to-morrow, 
and  the  Ice  Company  business  ought  to  last  a  week,  so 
Ludlow  says." 

"  Well ! "  said  Aunt  Ann,  "  if  you  must  go,  you 
must.  Ezra  can  do  most  of  the  chores  while  you're 
away,  and  I'll  have  Old  Curl  come  and  do  the  heaviest 
of  'em." 

So  Jim  Lee  kissed  Aunt  Ann,  and  then  kissed  Lide. 
This  latter  caress  was  a  trifle  strained,  for  Jim  Lee  felt 
guilty  when  he  looked  at  his  daughter;  and  Lide 


OHIO  DAYS  315 

hadn't  half  forgiven  him  his  actions  toward  her  idol 
ised  Ed.  Since  Ed  had  been  forbidden  her  society, 
Lide  loved  him  much  better  than  before. 

Thus  started  Jim  Lee  for  the  city  on  Ice  Company 
matters,  Tuesday  afternoon.  Christmas  Eve  was  the 
following  Thursday.  Jim  Lee  would  return  on  the 
Monday  or  Tuesday  after.  He  was  fated  to  find  some 
startling  changes  on  his  coming  back. 


VII 

AUNT   ANN   PLOTS 

AUNT  ANN  found  much  to  occupy  her  during  the 
hours  before  Christmas  Eve.  There  were  forty-eight 
of  these  hours.  Aunt  Ann  needed  them  all. 

For  one  matter  she  made  Ezra  drive  her  over 
to  the  County  Seat.  She  wanted  to  see  her  brother, 
Will  Pickering,  who  was  Probate  Judge  of  the  County. 
Aunt  Ann  also  dispatched  a  letter  by  trusty  messenger 
to  her  sister,  Mary  Newton,  who  lived  at  Eastern  Cross 
roads,  some  seven  miles  from  Stowe.  As  a  last  assign 
ment,  Aunt  Ann  told  Ezra  to  go  over  and  ask  Ed  to 
come  up  to  the  house. 

"  You'll  be  at  the  Christmas  tree  at  the  church  to- 
night, won't  you,  Ed?"  asked  Aunt  Ann,  after  making 
some  excuse  for  sending  for  him.  She  put  the  ques 
tion  quite  casually. 

"Well!  be  sure  and  come,  Ed,"  said  Aunt  Ann. 
"  And  more'n  that,  be  sure  and  dress  yourself  up.  I 
think  I'll  need  you  to  help  me  get  things  off  the  high 
limbs." 

With  Ed  Church's  going,  Aunt  Ann  sank  back  in  her 


3i8  SANDBURRS 

Aunt  Ann,  as  she  led  Lide  to  his  side.  "  Now,  Brother 
Crandall,  if  you  will  perform  the  ceremony — the  short 
form,  please,  and  leave  out  the  word  *  obey  ' — the  dis 
tribution  will  be  complete." 

"  But  the  licence  !  "  gasped  the  Rev.  Crandall, 

"  There  it  is,"  said  Aunt  Ann,  "  with  my  brother 
Will's  seal  and  signature  as  Probate  Judge  on  it.  You 
don't  s'pose  I  had  Ezra  drive  me  clear  to  the  County 
Seat  in  the  dead  of  winter  for  nothing  ?  " 

The  ceremony  was  over.  Ed  and  Lide  were  "  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Edwin  Church ;  "  and  the  entire  population 
of  Stowe,  some  in  tears,  all  in  earnest,  were  kissing  the 
bride  and  shaking  hearty  hands  with  the  groom.  That 
latter  young  gentleman  was  dazed  and  happy,  and 
looked  both. 

"  Now,  Ed,"  said  Aunt  Ann,  after  kissing  him  and 
then  kissing  Lide,  "I'm  your  mother;  and  I'll  begin 
to  tell  you  what  to  do.  You  put  Lide  in  your  cutter 
and  head  Grey  Eagle  for  Eastern  Cross-roads.  I  sent 
Mary  word  you  were  coming,  and  there's  a  trunk  full  of 
Lide's  things  gone  over.  Stay  a  week.  If  you  need 
collars,  or  shirts  or  anything,  Mary  will  give  you  some 
of  John's.  Stay  a  week  and  then  come  home.  Father 
will  be  back  from  the  Ice  Company  Tuesday,  and  by 
Thursday  of  next  week,  when  you  return,  I'll  have 
him  fully  convinced  that  all  is  ordered  for  the  best,  and 
whatever  is,  is  right.  So  kiss  your  mother  again, 
children,  and  start.  I  hear  Grey  Eagle's  bells  a-jin- 
gling,  where  Dick  Bond's  brought  him  to  the  door." 

THE  END 


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